


The Better Man

by Flora_Gray



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Adult Content, Angst But Make it Funny, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Decisions, Complicated Relationships, Content Warning Infertility, Drama & Romance, Dramedy, F/M, Love Triangles, No Slash, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Possibly Requited Love??, Raoul Friendly, Rivalry, Romance but Make it Awkward, Sexual Content, Slow but steady updates, Unrequited Love, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Gray/pseuds/Flora_Gray
Summary: Raoul is able to give his wife everything - except for the one thing she wants most. Will a desperate situation cause his old rival to reenter their lives, changing it in ways they could never have imagined? Of course, or it wouldn't be a PotO story. Passion, angst, betrayal(?), True Love, revenge, messy relationships, but also kinda funny?? Fun for everyone...except the characters!
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik & Christine Daaé/Raoul de Chagny
Comments: 226
Kudos: 188





	1. Prologue

****

**Prologue**

It took approximately nine months for the scandal to fade away.

From the most gilded aristocrat to the humblest shopkeeper, everyone knew that there was only one reason for a man of his station to marry a girl of hers, particularly with it being such a rush job. In the all the finest salons in Paris, each mention of the young couple was inevitably accompanied by nods and winks. A particular source of amusement was the affair of the "Opera Ghost" - clearly an elaborate smokescreen capitalizing on a few unfortunate accidents, meant to conceal the young vicomte's illicit trysts with the falsely virtuous chorus girl. As confirmation, all paranormal activity at the Opera had of course ceased after the budding soprano simultaneously announced her early retirement and impending nuptials.

It was practically required that members of the upper class take a chorus girl or ballerina as a mistress, but it ended there, child or no. Everyone was at a loss as to how the girl, pretty though she was, had managed to convince a vicomte to marry her.

The question was answered when the blessed day finally arrived. The groom, misty-eyed and nearly swooning, could not have appeared more like a love-sick puppy. "Ah," they whispered. "She's charmed him with the craft and skill of an actress." When the last of the champagne was drunk and the newlyweds were sent on their way, guests turned to one another, saying, "Well, wasn't that lovely. Have you ever seen so many flowers?" before adding in a too-loud whisper, "But can you believe she had the nerve to blush? Who does she think she's fooling?"

From that point on, surveillance of the young couple became necessary. Obviously the whole thing would be hushed up and hidden as much as possible, so servants were bribed to be on the look-out for any bouts of indisposition or unusual changes of appetite in the new bride.

But the months dragged on without a single sign, and finally a dressmaker's assistant plied with brandy admitted that Madame had been skinny as a twig when she'd been measured for new dresses some six months after the wedding. Of course, as is common with this sort of thing, when all evidence began to point to public opinion being wrong, no one ever bothered admitting it. Gradually, the raised eyebrows lowered and tongues ceased to wag...about this particular couple, anyway. The sooner a new target was found, the sooner everyone could pretend they'd never been wrong. Thankfully, the French nobility is nothing if not filled with victims ripe for slander, and in short order, the whole affair was forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by lebzpel!


	2. The Last de Chagny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to the story! 
> 
> This is a WIP and will be a long one! I’m estimating something like 35-40 chapters? I’m managing 1-2 updates a month, so this will be a bit of a journey for us all. 
> 
> You will notice that this story begins very Raoul-heavy, but don't fret, there will be plenty of Erik and Christine. We will find ourselves with quite an unusual love triangle, which could plausibly go any number of ways. So if you’re R/C or E/C, there will be plenty to enjoy. E/R, sorry, you'll be out of luck here, except from a fun dynamic. :) To keep you guessing, you won't be getting to ride along in Christine’s head, so no POV chapters for her, though she’ll be a bigger presence in the story as it progresses.
> 
> Also, yes, it starts quite angsty, but it does lighten up before long...so if it seems like too much of a bummer, try to stick with it, it gets fun.
> 
> A note about the sexual content: this story does feature sex and reproduction, sometimes in fairly candid terms, and there will be scenes that do not "fade to black". However, it’s not going to be written so graphically as to be what I would consider smut. So, if you are underage or uncomfortable with sex at all, this is certainly not the story for you. If you're good with sex but don't like super graphic, you'll be good, I hope!
> 
> Lastly, enough credit cannot be given to Nade-Naberrie (of FF.net fame), my long-time editor and co-conspirator who has helped me with this story for literally YEARS, and has been completely invaluable and the best person ever to bounce ideas off of and help me see where I'm trying to go when things start to get muddled in my head. So much love!
> 
> Thanks for reading and for all your comments and messages! They are so very appreciated and are great motivation to keep plugging along at this thing!
> 
> xoxo  
> Flora

**The Last de Chagny**

Pale yellow light filtered in through a set of gauzy lace curtains, casting filigreed patterns of light and dark across the crisp linen tablecloth and gold-rimmed china, while beside a gleaming silver-plated coffee pot, pink-blushing roses and fragile peonies cascaded from a porcelain vase. An artfully arranged tray of pastries stood at the ready, overflowing with more than any two people could reasonably eat. The Vicomte de Chagny nodded to the waiting servant, who tipped a stream of rich, dark liquid into a little china cup. Fortified by the first scalding mouthful, the Vicomte was ready to receive the customary stack of letters awaiting his perusal. One by one the seals were broken, and delicately embossed cards were slid from thick cream envelopes — an invitation to join a hunting party in the countryside, an invitation to a card game in the city, a thank you for a lovely dinner party, each written in the same impeccably formal manner.

The last five years had seen a steady flow of such correspondence. At first the couple had been invited to endless functions, mostly, Raoul was certain, for curiosity's sake, but as interest in their private life faded, curiosity was replaced with simple adoration for his lovely wife. While well-meaning ladies still sometimes remarked, "Why, she's simply charming! One would almost never guess that she had been a chorus girl!" the truth was that Christine's unusual past was quickly forgotten in favor of her new reputation as a captivating conversationalist and irreproachable hostess. Social duties were dispatched with effortless poise and grace. Even Raoul's disapproving mother was forced to grudgingly admit that she acted the part of a perfect lady quite expertly.

As gratifying as it was to have been accepted into good society's inner circles, the couple was happiest with only each other as company. As a compromise, they split their time between a townhouse in one of Paris' most fashionable districts and a small chateau nestled in the verdant countryside. In Paris, they dined, attended the opera, and danced at balls, all with proper, polite smiles plastered on their faces. Out of the city, with no neighbors for miles, they let their masks slip, and became once more the two children who had run barefoot in the sand along the ocean's edge, scooping up seashells and stuffing them in their pockets. Spring afternoons saw the couple strolling hand-in-hand through the sprawling gardens, plucking over-ripe berries from thorny bushes and popping them into each other's mouths. Late nights were spent in front of a slow-burning fire, clinging to one another and whispering stories half-remembered from childhood. The next morning, they lingered in bed and spoke of the sometimes amusing, sometimes frightening things they had dreamed during the night.

They almost never spoke of him.

After that night, it took weeks before Christine could speak of any of it without choking on tears, unable to continue. The depth of her sorrow was, if he was honest with himself, a little overwhelming. Raoul cherished Christine's tender heart, but he was at a loss to understand why she would feel such pity for a person so clearly undeserving. He supposed there was something to the student-teacher history they shared, but not being musically-inclined himself, he figured it was a bond he simply could not fully appreciate. He remained sensitive for her sake, but Raoul's private thoughts were frank: the masked man was a villain, Raoul was the hero, and the story had gone as it should have.

One night, as sweat dried on their tangled limbs, a feeling of profound gratitude swelled within him and he thanked his wife, "For what you did to save me. How you were able to kiss that monster...I can't imagine. You were so brave, Christine." In the post-midnight darkness, he couldn't see her face, but felt her entire body stiffen in his arms. He was flooded with regret. He shouldn't have brought it up, shouldn't have made her relive the horror. He tried to apologize, but she stopped him, her voice soft and careful and tinged with pain, "I did what I needed to do." It took him a long time to fall asleep.

The next morning, Christine's eyes were all dark circles. When he went to kiss her good morning, she shook her head but pulled him close. "Raoul, you know this is very hard for me to talk about, but it seems we must." Her fingertips traced gentle lines on his chest. Her eyes did not meet his. "Last night you called...him a monster, and me brave for showing him kindness." She placed a finger on his lips to quiet his protestations. "Believe me, I haven't forgotten all that happened, but it seems to me that if..." She drew in a breath, exhaled. "If there were less people calling him a monster and more who showed him kindness, he might not have become the monster people believed he must be, and we might not have ended up in the situation we did. " She turned away from him, rolling onto her back, her eyes gazing at a point beyond the ceiling. "I have forgiven him, and I hope you will, too. I believe in my heart that he's changed." She glanced over at him. "I'm here in bed with you, aren't I?" She had a playful half-smile, and he couldn't help but press his own smiling lips to hers. When he pulled back, her dark eyes were serious, soul-piercing. "Raoul. Don't call him a monster. He's not. Nor is he a ghost or an angel or any other inhuman creature. He's just a man," she paused, squeezing her eyes shut tight. "A man named Erik. And like all of us, he has the capacity for both good and bad – please remember that."

Raoul agreed, chastened, and they fell into each other's arms.

After that, they never spoke of him at all.

With their dark past behind them, over three years passed in an idyll of happiness and affection...before things began to change...

The screech of chair legs moving across the polished wood floor jolted Raoul back into the present. He snatched up a napkin to blot the coffee he'd sloshed onto the letter in his hand, at which he'd been staring absently for some time.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. Did I startle you?" Christine asked. A vision bathed in golden morning light, she wore a simple morning dress and a placid smile.

Raoul jumped up to help her into her seat. "Maybe just a little. I must have let my mind wander a bit too far as I was reading Madame Fournier's thank you note."

Christine laughed - a cascade of tinkling crystal notes. "Well, I'd hardly fault you for that." She reached for a sugared bun as Raoul filled her coffee cup. "Anything interesting in the mail today, darling?"

Raoul rifled through the stack of envelopes. "Oh, the usual. I received an invitation to join a hunting party, but I think I'll decline. Frankly, I find the whole practice barbaric. Oh! And here's an invitation to a dinner from the Baron de Montfort." He paused, glancing up at Christine. She was spreading butter onto her bun with the focus of a painter working the canvas with a palette knife.

"Oh? When?" she replied without looking up.

"The first Saturday after we return to the city. It looks like it's a small party. Just us and a few other guests." Again he paused.

"Well, won't that be lovely." She took a measured bite of her pastry and then set about rearranging her silverware.

Raoul stared at her small, pale hands. They trembled ever so slightly. Dropping his voice to just above a whisper, he looked at her levelly and said, "Sweetheart, we don't have to go if you don't want to. Just say the word and I'll make our excuses."

Still not meeting his gaze, a small crease appeared between her brows. "Of course we should go. We've owed them a visit since...for ages now, and if we turn them down once again it will seem intentionally rude."

He caught her hands in his. They seemed so fragile. "Are you sure it won't be too hard on you?"

She snatched them back and reached for her coffee cup. "Raoul," she said with an exasperated sigh, "I really don't know what you mean. Now, will you please just write and let them know that we'll be there and let the matter drop?"

The morning light was beginning to turn harsh as the sun rose higher in the cloudless sky. A white-gold beam fell over Christine's face, bleaching out what little color she had. For a moment Raoul was reminded of Michelangelo's statue of Rachel at the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome. They'd spent a week in that city as part of a month-long honeymoon tour through Italy. While Raoul had seen his fill of old Italian stone statues long ago, Christine had lingered over the figure of the unhappy woman whose eyes were turned heavenward, hands clasped in supplication. Now it seemed another statue sat before him, with downcast eyes and perfect features, smooth as marble...except for the faint puffiness around her eyes, the result of another unhappy night.

Raoul refilled his cup and smiled across the table at his wife. "Yes, my love. Whatever you want."

...

The dreaded evening came all too soon. At precisely six-thirty in the evening, the de Chagny carriage rumbled to a stop before the wide stone steps of a seven story townhouse in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Pleasantries were exchanged, formalities concluded, and by seven o'clock they and the other guests had sat down for dinner. It was a rather unremarkable affair. Everyone was charmed with Christine, as usual. She laughed at the baron's tired old jokes, feigned delight over each course, and was quick with a pleasant response to every prying question. Only Raoul noticed the way she clenched her soup spoon so tightly her knuckles went white.

Later that evening, the men joined the ladies in the salon, the smoky-sweet smell of imported cigars still clinging to their clothes. Raoul found an empty seat near his wife. He gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze, and she responded with a tight-lipped smile. He turned his attention to the baroness, who was presiding over the gathering like a great squawking hen, complete with beady little eyes and a massive chest threatening to spill out of her too-tight gown. A headpiece of bobbing feathers completed the effect.

"Well, my dear, I was just telling the ladies what a doll, what an absolute doll our little Augustin is," the baroness said to her husband once everyone had settled. "Wouldn't you say so, dear? Wouldn't you say he's simply a perfect doll?"

From somewhere within his voluminous whiskers, the baron responded with a series of gruff but amiable-sounding grunts that must have been assent.

"In fact, my dear, I was just thinking that if it's not too late, if it's not too terribly late, that we should have the nurse bring down the children. Don't you think so dear, don't you think that would be lovely?"

Again the baron's grunts were repeated, and a servant was rung for. In short order, a plain, tired-looking girl of about nineteen arrived trailing four small children, with another bundled up in her arms. The girl arranged them in a line, tallest to shortest, and, as they were introduced, prompted each to perform a practiced little bow or curtsey to the general delight of the crowd.

The baroness was in ecstasies. "And this," she said, taking the youngest child - a plump, pink-cheeked baby boy almost drowning in lace - into her arms and presenting him to the ladies and gentlemen, "is our little Tintin. You see? A doll, an absolute doll!"

Raoul nodded his agreement even though he wasn't actually looking at the child; he was observing Christine out of the corner of his eye. A too-bright smile was plastered on her face. Her hands were buried in the folds of her gown. She must have sensed him staring, for she flashed shining eyes over at him in a warning glance before turning them back to the baroness, who had brought the child before her. Christine did an admirable job of cooing over the child - who did nothing but drool in return - as the baroness bounced him in her arms. "Isn't he just the dearest thing you've ever seen?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Christine responded, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

"Children are such a blessing," said the baroness. "I feel so absolutely blessed to have such perfect little darlings. They bring me so much joy, I simply don't know what I'd do without them." She lowered her voice. "Of course, dear, we're all hoping you'll find that out soon enough for yourself," she added with a sly glance at Christine, who promptly went pink.

"Oh, yes," said Christine, her voice only slightly unsteady, "we're hoping, too." Then, with the too-bright smile back in place, she deftly maneuvered the conversation back onto the endless charms of the pudgy, drooling infant.

Riding home in their carriage, Raoul held Christine as she wept onto his shoulder.

…

The next morning Raoul found himself outside another townhouse, only a few blocks away from the one he'd dined at last night. Its stone facade was almost identical; his dread was almost as acute. He never did like his obligatory weekly visits to his parents.

Tugging off his gloves, he followed an ancient servant into the salon where his mother sat stiff-backed in her richly upholstered Louis XVIII chair. She allowed him to kiss each cool, papery-soft cheek before waving him towards a nearby chair with a withered hand weighed down by huge glittering gems on golden rings.

"Back from the country I take it?" the Comtesse de Chagny asked.

"Yes, Mother. Just this week," Raoul replied.

She cast an appraising glance at him. "You spend too much time out of doors. Your color is rather high." She ignored Raoul's grimace. "And where's your wife? Couldn't be bothered to join us today?"

Raoul ground his teeth. "She wanted to come, but I asked her to stay home. We attended a dinner party last night and were out rather late. I thought it best that she stay in and rest today."

"Hm. Too much wine, I suppose," said the Comtesse quietly, but not so quietly that Raoul didn't hear.

Heat was rising up the back of his neck. A slew of angry words were bubbling in his throat, but he would not let her win. He would have to content himself with a sigh and a shake of his head.

A self-satisfied smile was playing about his mother's lips. "Well then, shall we have our tea? We won't wait for your father, he's out on business and knowing him it will soon turn to pleasure, and then he won't find his way home until dinner is getting cold on the table." She called for a servant who spread a small table for them, and twenty minutes later, Raoul found himself staring at the tiny bits of leaf swirling in the dregs of his tea as he stirred it listlessly with his spoon. He'd had little to contribute to his mother's harsh critiques of the government, the poor, and now, the neighbors. He could only hope his little nods of approval and the occasional interjections of "quite so" or "very true" would cover for the fact that he had hardly taken in a word she had said.

"Raoul."

"Oh, you're absolutely right."

"Raoul!"

"Oh!" The sharp tone brought him to full attention with a little jump. "Yes, Mother?"

"Raoul, I asked you to stop that clatter you're making with your spoon. It's really quite rude to be making so much noise while someone is speaking."

Raoul dropped the spoon obediently, mumbling an apology.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" The Comtesse sighed and placed her teacup back on its saucer with a little clink. "Raoul, we really must speak about something quite important, and I'm going to ask that you give it your full attention. Do you think you can manage? Good, then shut the door. This isn't for any of the servants to hear."

On boneless legs Raoul wobbled over to the door and pulled it shut, his head swimming with all the possible unpleasant topics of conversation he might find himself confronted with. He returned to his seat, discreetly wiping his perspiring palms onto its velvet cushion.

Raoul felt pinned by his mother's cool, steel gray eyes. She appeared to be considering her words, for once. For once, he'd rather she just was out with it.

"Five years of marriage, and not a single child."

He changed his mind, he'd rather she'd kept it in. She continued on, regardless.

"You do realize, do you not, how important it is that you have an heir?"

"Of course I do." How could he not? It had been drilled into him since he could remember. As the last of the line, with no siblings and no living cousins, the de Chagny estate would end up in the hands of some undeserving distant relative, or so his parents had reminded him at every opportunity.

"Well then, Raoul, you understand my concern. Your father and I are growing old, and we would like to be assured that the de Chagny line will be continued before we die. Please, tell me that you are not doing anything to...prevent a child?"

"Mother!"

"Oh, don't be scandalized, this is a family matter. We must discuss it as two adults. Now answer the question."

"No...no. Of course not. It...just hasn't happened yet."

"Hm." The Countess considered for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. She stopped suddenly. "Has she been seen by the family doctor? Is it possible she picked up some disease on the streets that might-"

"No. No, it is not possible." Under a veneer of practiced calm, Raoul was positively seething. "Mother, she was an actress, not a whore."

"Oh?" The Comtesse arched a penciled brow and took a sip of tea through pursed lips. "Is there a difference?"

Raoul was on his feet with his gloves in his hands before he realized what he was doing. "I think I've had quite enough for one day, Mother. I'm going." His voice sounded foreign to his ears, strange and tight.

"Oh Raoul, don't be so hot-headed." The Comtesse was refilling her tea with a steady hand, her eyes trained on the cup. "Sit down, I'm not through talking with you."

The door lay several paces away, and Raoul eyed it longingly. He could feel his lips trembling. Never in his life had he walked out on his mother, and as liberating as he felt it might feel at this moment, a nagging voice in his head told him that he might live to regret it. He wavered; she noticed. She softened her voice and repeated her request. She won; he sat.

She refilled his cup and pushed it towards him. He picked it up so he would have something to do with his hands.

"Raoul, you must understand. Your father and I have been very indulgent with you," she said, spooning sugar into her cup. "We have tolerated your choice of a wife, where other families would have forbidden it - would have even disowned you if you dared to defy them. She may not have had a title or a dowry, or even a respectable family, but she seemed to make you happy. And so while we have not approved of it, we allowed it. But...if she cannot give you a son…" She blew the steam from her tea and took a small sip. "Well, Raoul, indulgence can only go so far. We must think about the needs of the family."

Raoul took a deep breath. "I know what you're implying, and I'm telling you now, child or no child, I will never, never leave my wife."

With a little shrug, the Countess drained her cup. "Very well, but just know this: If you die without an heir, you will be letting down not only your father and myself, but also generations of de Chagnys stretching back hundreds of years. I only ask you to think of that." Her empty teacup rang out with finality as she dropped it upon the saucer. The interview was over.

Ten minutes later the same ancient servant held open the front door as Raoul made his way through the foyer, dozens of pairs of painted eyes belonging to family members long since dead following him as he went.


	3. The Mirror

**The Mirror**

The slender golden hand circled once, twice around the perimeter of the clock. On its third pass, Raoul sent the maid upstairs with a tray of tea and biscuits. He settled back into his worn leather armchair and picked up the newspaper he'd read twice already.

This morning, he'd slipped from the bed and tiptoed out of their room, never even considering waking his sleeping wife for their customary visit with his mother. It wasn't uncommon for Christine to be in bed long past breakfast after difficult nights, but now luncheon had come and gone and she still hadn't come down. He chewed at his thumbnail, wincing as he hit the quick.

While last night had been particularly distressing, it was by no means unusual. For most of the five years that they'd been married, they'd endured endless hints that everyone was anxiously anticipating the arrival of a de Chagny heir. When they had first married, it was amusing. Husband and wife had been eager to start a family, and often entertained themselves by plotting out a future that involved a country house overflowing with sun-kissed, golden-haired children. As the first year became the second, the hints and winks became irritating. After all, plenty of couples took a year or more to have their first child. By the end of the third year, each mention cut like a well-honed knife.

Raoul eyed his desk from across the library. Tucked deep within a small drawer, concealed behind a thick packet of uninteresting receipts from tailors and grocers, was a secret case filled with a handful of stale cigarettes. He hadn't smoked in years, but more and more frequently he found himself craving a few furtive drags, the calming smoke blown out the open window. He dragged his gaze from the desk and rubbed his hands together to calm the itching in his fingertips.

The maid appeared in the doorway and gave him a silent nod. Raoul tossed aside his newspaper and climbed the single flight of stairs to their bedchamber, saying a silent prayer that the extra sleep had done his wife some good.

Raoul had always been pragmatic, after all: every problem must have a fix. Last spring, when the situation began to look dire, he called in a visit for Christine from the family doctor, a white-haired and thickly-spectacled old man who had served the de Chagnys loyally - and most important, discreetly - for generations. After his poking and prodding failed to turn up any obvious defect in her, he recommended plenty of rest, fresh air, and perhaps a visit to Vichy's mineral baths, none of which appeared to have any effect.

She'd returned from her trip to Vichy so full of hope, and her eventual disappointment had nearly crushed him. Raoul had done everything he could do soothe and reassure her. He swore that he would love her whether she could have children or not, and would never want anyone but her. And it was true. But there was something that lay between them now: a broken promise, a crushed dream. An unspoken knowledge that if this wound were not closed, it would fester and rot.

Raoul stepped onto the landing and walked down the hall, his footsteps dampened by the plush silk carpet runner his father had brought back from his most recent trip to India. Pausing in front of the door to their bedchamber, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and worked a smile onto his face. It was vital that he remain a buoyant presence amidst the swirling, sucking tides of pain. The heavy door was just barely cracked. He pushed it open a few inches more and peeked into the room.

Christine sat at her vanity, draped in an ivory silk dressing gown, hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She didn't turn, didn't give any acknowledgment that she knew he was there. The gilded mirror was angled in such a way that he could see her reflection, while she could not see him. A tickle that felt confusingly like guilt told him to announce himself, but there was something so enthralling about the intimacy of this unguarded moment. He gripped the doorframe and drank her in.

The face reflected in the mirror appeared faded and indistinct, like it belonged to an old, worn portrait: lovely, but lifeless. He watched as she attempted to pinch some color into her cheeks; it spread like twin pools of blood on a white linen sheet. One by one she opened crystal bottles and porcelain jars, dabbing oil onto her wrists, dusting powder over her forehead and down her nose, each motion delicate and deliberate, but without enthusiasm. Finally, each curl was twisted up and secured with a hairpin, not perfectly, but charmingly.

She sighed and picked up an oversized powder puff. As she looked up and her eyes met that of her reflection, she went very still, her dark eyes widening.

Raoul's heart skipped a beat. Had she seen him?

For a long moment, Christine gazed into the mirror, her face a blank. Eventually, enough time passed that Raoul felt certain enough she hadn't seen him after all, and he allowed himself a long, slow exhale. She appeared to be staring off into some faraway point his eyes couldn't see. As he pondered what that might be, her brow drew up, creased with distress. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her head hung forward, heavy. Her shoulders began to heave with short, sharp, shallow breaths.

Clearly, she was about to cry.

Raoul chewed his lip. He knew he should go comfort her, but he just couldn't seem to get his feet to move. Instead he hesitated, clinging to the carved door frame with one hand. He was reminded of when he was a small boy on holiday at the seaside, hanging onto the salt-eaten wooden pier, trying to work up the nerve to let go and swim out into the ocean. He took a deep breath and loosened his grip.

Then, slowly, slowly, her head began to tilt back.

Raoul froze as her chin arced gently toward the ceiling, exposing a pale, creamy throat, marked with a thudding, insistent pulse. A pink flush bloomed upon her cheeks, warming the air between them, setting Raoul's own face ablaze. Unblinking, Raoul watched the rise and fall of the swell of her breast as her breaths became deep, rich, tremulous.

Slowly, slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted into the slightest of smiles.

Slowly, slowly...her lips parted.

Suddenly, a yelp sliced through the room. Christine's eyes flew open.

A sliver of wood from the door frame had pierced one of Raoul's clawed fingers, drawing blood.

Christine sat stunned, as if he'd upturned a pitcher of ice water over her head. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, blinking her glossy eyes as if she'd just awoken. Her still-flushed cheeks burned even hotter as she finally turned to face him.

"Oh hello, darling," she said, her voice unsteady, but sweet. "I didn't see you'd come in." Her mouth pulled into a shy, lopsided smile.

"Ah, are you...all right?" Raoul asked haltingly, the words gritty in his dry mouth.

"I…" Christine's eyes darted back to the mirror. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

"Are...you sure?" asked Raoul. He hoped his face wasn't burning as red hot as it felt.

Christine shook her head and replaced her powder puff in its box, then stood and held out her arms to him. "Darling, really," she pressed her lips into a smile. "Nothing's the matter." Raoul went to her and let her wrap him in her arms, her warm cheek pressed against his chest. "I must have been daydreaming a little, that's all."

"Oh?" Raoul replied in an unexpectedly high pitch. "What about?"

There was a pause. "I...really can't even remember! Nothing in particular, I suppose." She pulled back and looked up into his face. She wore an apologetic expression, but her smile was tight. "You know how women can be sometimes."

Raoul swallowed hard over the lump in his throat, and returned a smile every bit as tight as his wife's. "Alright, then. If you say so."

He reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, trying hard to ignore the queasy feeling which churned his stomach. As his hand leveled with her face, Christine cried out and snatched his wrist. "Oh Raoul, you're bleeding!"

A glossy bead of bright red blood clung to his finger.

"Oh, yes." Raoul's mouth stretched into a sheepish grimace. "When I was coming in, I, ah, grabbed the door frame and, uh, must have managed to prick myself on a splinter."

"My poor darling," Christine said with a little frown. Leading him by the wrist, she swept back to her vanity. She opened a small jar, pulled out a bit of cotton, and dabbed at the droplet. Raoul felt a bit silly given the minor nature of his injury, but watching her ministrations made his heart flutter like an infatuated school boy's, and the tension that had filled the room evaporated instantly.

"I'm sorry I slept so long," she said as she gave the spot one last dab with the cotton and released his hand. "How were your parents? They weren't upset that I wasn't there, were they?"

Raoul's face darkened. "No, it was fine. My father was out, so it was only my mother anyway." Though he had promised his wife that he would never be anything less than entirely truthful, he'd also promised himself that he would never, never allow his mother's heartless words to reach his wife's ears. He tugged on a loose thread on his cuff. "It was a nice visit," he said in a tone much less convincing than he'd hoped.

"Really? You seem a little..."

He sighed. "Oh, you know how she is, it was the same old ridiculous ranting. Consider yourself very fortunate that you weren't there." He bent and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Are you going to finish getting dressed? I was thinking we might take a walk down to the park before dinner."

"That sounds lovely."

"I'll leave you to it, then. I'm just going to fetch my overcoat." He turned to leave. "Ah yes! I almost forgot, you received a letter today." He pulled a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

She took it unenthusiastically, but her face lit up when her eyes fell on the sender's name. "It's from Meg!" she cried with delight.

"Is it?" called Raoul over his shoulder as he made his way into the adjoining room to retrieve his coat. "How nice! I wonder how she's liking married life!"

They hadn't seen Meg since her wedding, six months ago. Despite Madame Giry's very vocal disapproval, Meg had given up the stage to marry a Swiss banker, a pleasant - if a bit dull - man more than a few years her senior who could keep her in reasonable comfort and, as Meg often said, off her poor, abused toes. Shortly after the wedding, Meg was whisked off to Switzerland, and while Madame Giry claimed to be mourning the loss of her dream of seeing Meg as a world famous prima ballerina, they knew that the old woman was too proud to admit that she simply missed her only child. Not that she was alone in her grief - Christine had wept for days when Meg left.

"She said she had a lovely honeymoon," Christine called out. "And she's been busy setting up her new home... She complains about the cold...and the Swiss cooking." Christine chuckled lightly. "And she-"

Christine fell silent.

"And she...what?" asked Raoul as he strode back into the room, fastening the buttons on his overcoat. He looked up and caught sight of her bloodless face - his own immediately creased with concern. "What's the matter? Is everything alright?"

"She...she..." Christine began, but tears were leaking from her eyes. She shook her head and thrust the letter towards Raoul. He scanned the sheet with a knitted brow. Just above the signature, in Meg's gently looping hand: "And, darling, I've saved the most exciting news for last - I'm expecting a baby! Can you believe it? We're both absolutely thrilled." His brow went slack and he looked up at her, stricken.

"Oh, Christine... I'm so sorry," he said, letting the paper drop and pulling her to him. Helpless, he held her tight as she sobbed, her burning tears soaking into the shoulder of his coat.

Finally, when her tears were spent, Christine drew a few ragged breaths. "I need to say something," she said, her voice low, husky. She swiped at her tears. She looked up at him, but couldn't quite hold his gaze, settling instead for a spot on his chest. "This is getting so very hard for me, Raoul. I want so much to give you a child, and I've - I've failed you." She held up a hand to silence him before he'd even managed to open his mouth in protest. "No, you know it's true. I've failed you as a wife."

"No!" Raoul cried "How could you even-"

"Please, let me finish," Christine said, cutting him off forcefully. "I've failed myself, too. Our plan was for me to quit singing and have a family. If I'm not a mother...what am I?" She looked up at him then, her pleading eyes like a punch in the gut.

He cupped her tear-scalded cheek in his hand and thumbed away a stray droplet. At that moment, he made a silent vow that he would do anything, anything to take this pain away.

"You're my wife," Raoul said softly. "And you're everything to me."

Her lips tasted of salt, and when he drew back, rather than comforted, she looked tired, weary. Hopeless.

Though he attempted to radiate confidence throughout his body, he could feel that his face was on the verge of crumpling. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead pressed her to his chest, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand.

"Everything's going to be alright," he said, after he'd managed to steady his voice with a few slow breaths. "We'll have a baby, it's just...taking us a little longer."

"But, Raoul-"

"Shh... I mean it. It'll happen for us, soon. I promise."

He meant it. He really did. He would do whatever it would take to find the fix to this problem.

But in his heart, he knew that this was one promise he might not be able to keep.

* * *

Hiya! I started writing this ages ago, posted on FF.net. I've finally taken it up again, so here it is in a new home. Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realize I forgot to mention something: I'm not really sure which version of PotO this is based on. I guess it's not based on any one, exactly. I've said in the past that I prefer Leroux or Kay's Eriks, and that I definitely think that type of deformity is the only way to go, but...I changed my mind? As far as this story goes, it really needs a half-faced deformity, and while a Kay Erik could work for this, personality-wise, Leroux is definitely out. (Though that's not to say some aspects of his personality won't still show up.) So for those who can't stand movie-verse, don't worry - this isn't definitely isn't that by any means, though again, touches may show up. Maybe I didn't need to clarify all this, but I do want to give an idea of what I'm going for here. Look, I'm not going to tell you how to live your life - feel free to picture any sort of universe that makes you happy. And if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about in the first place, then just carry on. :)


	4. A Hopeless Case

**A Hopeless Case**

Raoul snapped his pocket watch shut, shot up from the creaking leather chair, and once again made a circuit of the small space in front of the cluttered desk. Five paces to the bookshelf, five more to the tiny fogged window, ten back to the desk. A large and well-worn book sat upon one corner, the words Reproductive Organs of the Sexually Mature Female: An Illustrated Anatomical Guide leering at him in faded gold block print. Raoul averted his eyes. For a gentleman to even step foot into an establishment such as this, with its wax models of things no human eye should ever see and books with titles even more lewd than the one in front of him, well, it was unseemly to the point of absurdity. The wall full of diplomas and commendations from prestigious English universities was the only thing keeping him from fleeing the whole sordid place. A line of discreet inquiry had led him here with promises that there was no one better to help get to the bottom of the matter, but now Raoul was beginning to wonder if the man was nothing but a perverse quack. A perverse quack who couldn't even bother to be on time.

The door opened with a bang.

"Ah, Monsieur...hmm, I'm afraid I don't have a name for you here," said a graying, slope-shouldered man, glancing at a sheaf of papers as he bustled into the room. "My apologies for making you wait."

"None needed," Raoul fibbed, standing. "And no name, if you please. Monsieur will do just fine."

"I see." The doctor peered at Raoul over the rim of his spectacles for a moment, then dropped the papers onto the desk and shuffled them into a messy pile. He gestured to the creaky leather chair. "Please, sit. I, as you may have rightfully assumed, am Dr. Simmons. And you...you are here because you are desperate."

Raoul scoffed, taken aback. "Well, that's quite a way to put it."

"Perhaps. But I'm correct, no?"

Raoul considered him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, while the doctor stared back mildly. Finally, Raoul's shoulders slumped. "Yes...you are correct."

Simmons leaned back in his chair, a sympathetic smile stretching his face. "And I'm very sorry to be, but I am also pleased to tell you that you've come to the right man. Let's sort things out, hmm? How long has it been?"

"Five years."

The doctor hunched over a fresh sheet of paper and began scratching away. "And what steps have you taken so far in search of a diagnosis?"

"My wife has seen the family physician, and he found nothing obviously the matter. He prescribed rest and mineral baths."

A sharp bark of a laugh burst forth from Simmons. "Of course he did. And as for yourself?"

"What do you mean?" asked Raoul, genuinely puzzled.

"The doctor found nothing amiss with you?" Looking up from his paper for the first time, Simmons cocked an eyebrow at Raoul's quizzical expression. "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been examined?"

"Examined? Of course not! Why should I be? I have no... I mean to say, we have no problems when it comes to conjugal..." The room was suddenly much too hot.

"Ah, you mean to say that you are able to maintain an erection and ejaculate upon completion," the doctor said as impassively as if he'd been discussing the weather.

Raoul bolted up from his seat. "WHAT? How can you even- How could you-" he spluttered, speech and shock wrestling for control. "To speak to me in such a vulgar way! I've never-"

The doctor chuckled. "Oh, come on, chap! If you want to make a baby you're going to have to stop with the euphemisms and speak the language. I can't imagine you'd let a little medical terminology get to you." He slapped the table. "My word, you're worse than the English royal family, that stodgy old bunch!"

Grudgingly, Raoul returned to his chair, grumbling not-quite-under his breath.

Simmons wet the tip of his pen with his tongue, and held it hovering over the paper, still chuckling to himself. "So?"

"Yes," Raoul cleared his throat. "What you said. And we have been having frequent quick, vigorous...ah, intercourse," Raoul said, the word little more than a whisper, "just as the doctor suggested."

The doctor sat back in his chair and laughed from deep in his belly. "Ah, that's right. Because ability and fertility are one and the same, or so you have been led to believe." He leaned back onto his desk, adjusting his spectacles, suddenly all business. "This may come as a shock to you, but it's simply not true. A man may be able to perform, but it doesn't necessarily mean he can father a child."

A beat passed. Then, without a word, Raoul stood and retrieved his hat and overcoat from their hooks and turned to face the doctor, his hat pinched between rigid fingers. He spoke through clenched teeth. "You know, I can see I've been wasting both your time and my own. It's one thing to be vulgar and more than a little overfamiliar, but entirely another to be spouting outright lies. I was expecting quackery, and it appears I was not mistaken. Good day, sir."

With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Simmons batted away Raoul's little speech like a circling gnat, then placed both broad hands flat on his desk. "Oh, come now...sit back down." He sighed. "Yes, I know that my ideas may seem incredible, but so are my results. I'm easily a decade ahead of my colleagues, so the fact my theories and practices seem radical is completely true; you will not be able to get the answers that I can provide anywhere else," he said, and Raoul couldn't help the little leap of his heart. "You want anonymity," Simmons continued. "That leads me to believe that you're of nobility." A slight twitch of Raoul's eye provided confirmation. The doctor nodded. "I would take it farther and suppose that you are here because you need a child – a son – to secure your line. Now, you're welcome to walk out that door and take your chances with another doctor. But I can promise you that you can look all over Paris, London, hell, likely the entire world, and you will never find another doctor who can help you as I can." Simmons gestured to the door. "If you leave, there will be more patients, and I will be none the worse off. But you...you will be just as you were when you came in: desperate." Finished, he folded his hands and waited.

Raoul remained silent for a solid minute, attempting to stare down the presumptuous doctor. He couldn't walk away, not with so much at stake, not with so much to potentially regret. He let out the breath he'd been holding in a long, defeated sigh. "You're right, Doctor." Raoul resumed his position in front of the desk like a chastised pupil. "What needs to be done?"

"First off, we'll move to the next room and do a thorough exam. Afterward, I'll have you provide me with a sample of your ejaculate so that I can examine it for-" The doctor was cut off by the sound of Raoul choking and sputtering.

"And how do you expect to get that?" he asked between coughs, an eyebrow raised in defiant disbelief.

Simmons smirked at him, his eyes glittering with delight. "Oh, my dear fellow. I'm sure you'll be able to figure that one out. And here," he added, gesturing to the book on the corner of his desk. "A little something to give you inspiration, should you need it."

…

Three strong bourbons did the trick. The fire spread from his belly into his chest, spurring his heart to keep on beating and lifting his shoulders into a posture resembling confidence. It didn't do much for his gait, however, which wavered and wobbled as he tip-toed into the bedroom and froze in front of the bed. A full moon hung outside the window, silhouetting the graceful birch trees as they were swept back and forth by a gentle night's breeze. Watery moonbeams and tendrils of shadow rippled across the walls. Matched with his helpless swaying, the effect struck him as like being under water. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, rocking with each tipsy wave.

"Raoul?" his wife's voice called out in a mixture equal parts concerned, confused, and amused. "What are you doing?"

Raoul's eyes snapped open and he planted his feet to steady himself. "Oh, I'm sorry darling!" he said, working hard to keep his words crisp and clear and not as syrupy-slurred as they felt in his head. "Did I disturb you?"

Christine pushed herself up to lean back against the polished mahogany headboard, the white linen sheets pooling around her waist. "I was waiting up for you, but I must have fallen asleep. Where have you been? You said you'd be back in time for dinner." A slight crease had appeared between her brows.

With a sigh, Raoul dropped onto the edge of the bed. "I know, I'm sorry. I ran into François Jacquier, and he insisted that I stay for drinks and billiards." The lie came easily, thanks to the hours of practice. "I should have sent word. Do you forgive me?"

A smile twitched at the edge of her mouth. "It's nothing. I hope you had a nice time."

His eyes now accustomed to the low light, Raoul took notice of his wife's slightly swollen eyes and the unmistakable, too-familiar impression that she was carrying a heavy load upon her shoulders. His eyes drifted across to the nightstand, where a pen and ink sat in the midst of a nest of crumpled papers.

Instead of the usual heaviness he'd become accustomed to feeling in his chest, there was only a dull hollow sensation. "And you?" he asked, not looking at her.

"It was fine. I finally started working on a letter back to Meg, but..." She bit her lip and fell silent.

For several minutes, not a word passed between them as they sat listening to the rhythmic sweeping of the birch branches against the window pane.

Raoul gripped sweaty handfuls of the bedclothes. He feared that if he let go, there would be nothing to stop him from bolting from the room. He steeled himself. Like a pulling a thorn from your foot, it would be best if this news were delivered straight away; at least, that was the mantra he'd repeated to himself sometime during the second drink.

"Christine, I..." His mouth opened and closed uselessly until he could feel the burning acid from his stomach begin to rise up his throat. He flung himself forward, doubling over, begging the contents of his stomach to stay put.

"Raoul, are you sure you're well?" Christine leaned across the bed towards him, then paused, frowning. "I can smell the alcohol on you. Did you have too much to drink?"

He knew he was being a coward, but at the moment, he didn't care. He was going to take the out he'd been offered. He raised his head just enough to glance at her. "You know, darling, I must have. I think I'd better go get something to settle my stomach. I'll stay in one of the other bedrooms tonight - I don't want to disturb you."

"You're sure?" Her eyes were skeptical.

"Quite. Don't worry, love." She settled back in bed, brow still furrowed. Raoul planted a tight kiss upon her forehead and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Don't ever worry. I love you, so very much." She raised an incredulous eyebrow. After a beat too long, he managed a chuckle he hoped didn't sound as artificial as it felt. "Don't mind me. Drinking makes me silly. Good night." And with that he backed out of the room with an apologetic half-smile and a blown kiss.

…

With the glowing orange tongues of flame from the library's fireplace lapping at his back, Raoul gripped the neck of a cut-crystal decanter and sloshed its contents into a short glass. He thumbed an amber droplet off of his shirt-front as he downed the burning sweet liquid in one long swallow.

_'Well, Monsieur. There is one bit of good news I can give you: we needn't investigate any further.' The doctor's jaw was set, but his restless hands never stopped moving, gathering papers, straightening pens and cufflinks._

_'I don't understand.'_

_Simmons averted his eyes for a fleeting moment. 'My friend, the microscope has shown me that you are, quite unfortunately, sterile.'_

_Raoul blinked blinding white spots from his eyes. 'What?'_

_'There were absolutely no live sperm in the sample I examined. No live sperm, no baby,' the doctor said, jerking his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. 'It's not a wholly uncommon phenomenon, regrettably, but there you have it. I haven't seen your wife, so I couldn't say conclusively, but it seems the problem lies on your end.'_

_Raoul felt his head shaking back and forth. 'No, I'm sorry, but this is simply ludicrous! I don't believe it. Look again!'_

_The doctor's spine stiffened. 'My dear sir, I could look a hundred times, and the results would still be the same. There are many explanations for this. A fever you had as a child, perhaps? An infection? You don't appear to be suffering from Syphilis-'_

_'How dare you! To imply that-' Raoul was on his feet._

_'Pardon me,' said the doctor, raising a conciliatory hand, 'but you'd be in the small minority of Parisians who've avoided it. No disrespect intended. In any case, try not to let this diagnosis threaten your masculinity. It has nothing to do with it'_

_Raoul swatted the words away. 'I don't care about that. Just tell me how to fix it.'_

_'Fix it?' The doctor sounded genuinely perplexed._

Raoul's mouth was burning, but it didn't hurt enough. He refilled his glass and drained it before the decanter even hit the tray. He held the empty glass up before the dying fire, watching the flames writhe within as if they were trapped inside the crystal.

_'Money is no object,' said Raoul, already reaching for his billfold, 'so if there's some medicine, or operation, or-'_

_'Monsieur. Let me be quite clear.' The doctor looked grave, but there was a set to his mouth which Raoul thought almost resembled a smirk. 'There is no "fix". It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'_

The cup twitched in his hands, daring him to smash it against the smoldering logs, reigniting the flames in a shower of crystal shards. But in the end Raoul simply deflated, defeated, and refilled the glass once more.

* * *

I'll be posting a chapter a day until it's all caught up to what's been previously published. :)


	5. Say You Need Me

**Say You Need Me**

Honestly, he'd had every intention of telling her first thing in the morning. But she smiled so sweetly at him when he sat down to join her for breakfast that he began to reconsider, concluding that doing it later in the afternoon would be better. And then when she suggested a stroll around the park after lunch, he thought it best that he should wait until the next day, rather than ruin a pleasant outing. The next day there was an unexpected guest, the following a dinner party, and then Sunday she seemed so at peace after the church service...

A full two weeks later, Raoul was still carrying around his secret like a pocketful of jagged stones. Maybe it was his imagination, but it actually seemed she'd been happier lately, smiling more easily, and not even once bringing up their situation. He fantasized that she'd somehow learned the truth, accepted it, but chose not to reveal that she knew in an effort to let him save face. At times – the best times – he almost managed to convince himself of it.

Then, one night, as the reds and oranges of the late evening summer sky finally faded to black, instead of accompanying him to the library after dinner, Christine quietly excused herself without explanation and disappeared into the bedroom. Raoul's gaze lingered on the tray of spirits on the sideboard, but unwilling to take the chance that she might catch a whiff of the harsh burn of liquor on his breath, he gritted his teeth and followed.

He found his wife face down upon the bed – never a good sign. She didn't lift her head as he sat next to her and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand upon the small of her back. They sat in weighty silence for many minutes, her swallowed sobs occasionally swelling beneath his hand. At last, she pushed herself up and swiped damp curls away from her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, the word thick and raw in her throat.

Raoul could only stare back, dumbly.

She cast down her eyes. "I truly thought this time was different. It felt different. I felt so sure that this was it." She scrunched handfuls of sea green silk skirt in her lap, twisting and kneading. "I allowed myself to believe, to be happy..."

The standard words of comfort that usually flowed so swiftly from him now dried up in his throat. The silence stretched on far too long.

"Oh, God!" She sprang to her feet, whirling to face him with an expression of dawning horror. "You must hate me! Oh Raoul, please don't hate me, I'm so sorry!"

"Christine, I…" he began, but his useless mouth couldn't form the right words. He gave up and just shook his head, his face pinched in pain.

She blinked hard, as if she'd been slapped.

"Oh," she said softly. She took a step back, her eyes drifting over his face and around the room as if she'd never seen it before. Then, like a sleepwalker, she made her way over to the small stool in front over her gilded vanity, and sat with the practiced posture of a girl who'd spent many of her formative years training in ballet. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and sucked in a shuddering breath. "Please, Raoul... Please promise me you'll be honest with me." Each word was measured and even, as if she were reciting from a script. "If you want a different wife – a wife who can give you children – I understand. I do. I couldn't bear you secretly resenting me. Hating me." Her face began to crumple, beads of moisture shining on her lashes. "Just tell me, please just prom-"

"It's not your fault," he blurted out.

Her mouth snapped shut. She sat stock still, eyeing him as if he'd thoroughly lost his mind.

Raoul took a deep breath. "I- I saw a doctor. An expert in the field." The words fired from him like bullets. "He examined me. It's me. Not you. I can't father children."

This wasn't coming out at all like how he'd rehearsed in his head.

"What?" Her expression hadn't changed.

"I'm...infertile, sterile...whatever..." Raoul's shoulders went limp, his arms dangling lifeless at his sides.

Her eyes went blank, unreadable.

"I didn't mean to keep it from you," he said, not entirely sure it was the truth. "I just...wanted to wait for the right time."

"How long have you known?"

"A few days," he lied.

Christine looked him straight in the eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room. "And this doctor, he's sure?" The barest hint of hope behind her words hit him like a kick to the gut. He swallowed hard and grimaced.

"Yes. Very." He answered her next question before it could form on her lips. "And...unfortunately...he says there's nothing that can be done."

"Oh."

Her face was smooth, composed, if a little colorless. Something was behind her eyes, though – something he didn't recognize and couldn't put a name to. And though he knew the right thing was to ask her how she was feeling and then fall, weeping, into her arms and beg forgiveness, that inscrutable gaze sealed his lips and nailed his feet to the floor. Standing in front of her, he felt exposed and raw, like a mollusk that had crawled out of its shell.

"So, ah, now that we know… Well, I- I thought maybe we could talk some more about adopting...?" He could feel his toes squirming in his shoes.

Her eyes swung up to him, unfocused and unseeing. She blinked once, hard, and when she opened her eyes again, she was back. A smile softened her lips. "Yes, it's something to think about," she said.

Raoul felt his face break out in a stupid grin. He gathered her up in his arms and just held her close, his heart light as air.

He was brought down to earth by the feeling of two warm palms pressing against his chest. "Darling," she said, a note of apology already in her voice. "I think I'm getting a headache...you know how I get them when I cry."

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length, still savoring the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her dress. "Oh, no! I'm sorry, my love. Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

Her gaze drifted to the floor. "I think if I could just lie down in the dark for a bit..."

He gave her hands a squeeze, and released them. "Of course. I'll be in the library if you need me."

"Raoul?" His hand froze, gripping the doorknob mid-turn. He looked back at his wife. Perched on the edge of the bed, her limbs hung from her like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her mouth stretched into a thin smile. "I'm glad we know."

**…**

Raoul sat down his book and readjusted his feet on the tufted leather ottoman. Only a sip or two remained in his glass. He swirled the amber liquid, inhaling the smoky-sweet scent of the cognac. He drained the glass, but the alcohol did nothing to quiet the words still ringing in his ears.

_'It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'_

_Raoul slammed his palms against the desk, launching himself out of his chair. 'Do I understand? No, no. I'm afraid I don't.' His voice was rising higher and higher. 'You assured me that you were the best in your field, but now you're telling me you can do nothing?'_

_The doctor measured out his words through clenched teeth. 'There's much I can do for many people, but that doesn't mean there aren't still hopeless cases.' He threw up a hand to deflect Raoul's interjection. 'I'm sorry to have to be the one to inform you that you are one such hopeless case, but perhaps you can take some comfort in knowing? You and your wife can move on now. And, Monsieur, there are other roads to becoming parents. The orphanages are overflowing with children, beautiful children who-'_

_'Out of the question!'_

_'Fine," said Simmons with a flick of his hand. "Then perhaps you'll learn to appreciate the joys of a life without children. Think of all the unencumbered travel and leisure time. I have no children, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Your wife may even be relieved that she won't have to deal with the hardships of pregnancy and childbirth..."_

Wait...Was it relief? Was that the unfamiliar look in her eyes, the one he hadn't been able to put a name to? It had to be...if for no reason other than that he didn't want to think too long on what else it might have been.

And really, she would have to be relieved that it wasn't her, wouldn't she? She'd been so sad for so long, but now she knew it wasn't her fault! She could stop blaming herself and move on.

And come to think of it, was it possible that she really only wanted children for his sake? She knew how important having an heir- Oh, god. Raoul rubbed a hand over his face, a new realization dawning. His parents. Since he'd first gotten the news, his head had room for nothing but worry for how Christine would react. He hadn't even considered having to tell his parents...his mother. No, no. That was something he could worry about later...if at all. No, he was going to enjoy this lovely sensation of weightless, for tonight, at least.

Buoyant, he tipped a little more cognac into his glass in celebration. His mind was buzzing with possibilities. The doctor was right about one thing: It was true, unencumbered, they could travel the world, maybe buy another home by the sea, in the town they first met as children. He made a mental note to bring up those points to Christine in the morning.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Raoul slept soundly.

**…**

It was the cold that he noticed first. The chilled air of the early morning hours, snaking its tendrils around his bare feet, sending them searching for the familiar warmth that...that had always been there. The cool sheets stinging him fully awake. A numbing void next to him. And there, at the edge of the bed, a silhouette assembled from gentle curves.

She was there, but she was gone.

**…**

Sunday nights had always been special for them.

Christine was already reclining against the overstuffed pillows when Raoul came to bed, glossy curls spilling across her bare shoulders, her eyes heavy-lidded. A single lamp burned low, and her skin was incandescent in the semi-darkness. In their quest to create new life, they'd fallen into each others' arms again and again until it became a matter of course, yet the tips of Raoul's fingers still tingled with anticipation as he slipped into bed beside his wife, eying the creamy flesh above the ruffled neckline of her nightgown as it swelled with her deepening breaths. He let one finger glide down her exposed arm, buttery soft and rich with heat; it stiffened under his hand. Her barely parted lips drew him in, and he covered her mouth with his. Inflamed, he sucked and nipped at her unmoving lips. He drew back, gulping down the humid air, and descended upon her mouth again, his lips crushing against her jawline as she jerked her head to one side.

He searched her face in the half-light, following her unseeing gaze off into the distance. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I don't know, I suppose I'm just not in the mood," she said, her voice indifferent.

"Oh." Raoul blinked. "Okay then." He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, covering his eyes.

Christine rolled over beside him. He could feel the weight of her eyes on him. Finally she spoke. "Are you upset with me? I mean, we still can, if you really want to."

Raoul's stomach contracted into a hard, queasy lump. "No, that's...no." He clamped his mouth shut to quiet his trembling lips. "Just, never mind. Don't worry about it."

He swung off the bed and shrugged into a heavy wine-colored brocade robe.

"Where are you going?" Christine asked, scooting up in bed, and assessing him with those new blank eyes which had replaced those he'd known so well. "Are you angry?"

"I'm fine, really." He pasted on a too-wide, tight-lipped smile. "I just want to have a quick brandy to help me sleep. I'll be right back."

He fled the room and didn't stop until the glass was in his hand.

Almost six years of marriage, and never had his wife turned from him like that. He wasn't sure if he was perhaps making too much of the incident, but all the same, he'd let her have the bed to herself, just for tonight.

**…**

It took five nights for him to quit hoping she'd ask him to stop sleeping in a guest room and come back to their bed.

**…**

It was too quiet. Raoul tried to focus on the book in his hands, but the words rang hollow in his head. There was nothing but his shallow breaths, his thudding heartbeat. Where the rustle of her skirt should be, there was only the rustle of the turning pages.

Raoul shifted in his chair. Inseparable. How many times had he heard that word tossed around in regards to Christine and himself? Each time he would smile and squeeze her hand, knowing that no one could truly understand the bond they shared. There had been a time where he thought that he might lose her forever, and he had been prepared to do whatever it might take to keep her with him. After that, he knew that only death could tear them apart. And yet...

Raoul flung his book onto the table and jammed his hands into his pockets. It was no use trying to put on this act, going through the motions of his day-to-day life, ignoring the ever-growing gulf between them. He was unraveling. His wife, on the other hand, seemed more composed than she had been in years. He hadn't seen so much as a single tear from her since the night of his confession, but her real, true smiles were also nearly as rare. Those had been replaced by the hard-edged, over-bright imitations that she had only ever used with others. Never had they been for him. But now, it was like watching her on stage. And though her performance could be convincing, it didn't change the fact that he had been relegated, once more, to the audience.

The most maddening part, however, was that the distance – both physical and otherwise – would occasionally be breached, without warning and without any notion as to how it could be reproduced. She would suddenly appear at his side after hours of isolation, picking up a book or her embroidery and carrying on as if she'd been there all afternoon. Or unexpectedly wrap her arms around him from behind as he fastened his cuffs, flooding his body with a warmth that turned to numbing cold when moments later she would release him and pad silently from the room. It was like walking on shifting sands, never knowing how the next step would land, never knowing if he would ever feel solid ground again.

Raoul ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long sigh. He heaved himself out of his seat and crept over to peer around the door frame. Across the hall, he could see into the day room, luminous with the late afternoon sun flooding through its massive windows. Christine sat in silhouette at a little desk, her face darkened but still lovely, the little curve of her nose upturned above slightly pursed lips. A pen moved in her hand, making a series of careful, deliberate swoops and slashes on a piece of stationary. Raoul bit the inside of his cheek, daring himself to cross the hall and beg her to tell him that she still loved him – that she would always love him. At her desk, Christine finished a line, nibbling on her pen as she considered it. A hint of a real, true smile curved her lips. Heat pricked at Raoul's lids. He glanced at her once more through watery eyes, and then shut the door with a quiet click.

…

When the sauce on the fish began to congeal, Raoul decided it was time to have dinner taken away. A maid appeared, mercifully avoiding eye contact as she whisked away the dishes, including the untouched food on his plate. He drew a slim, silver-plated case from his pocket and fished out a cigarette. He rolled it between his fingers, re-accustoming them to the feel of it. He had given up smoking years ago for Christine, back when she sang; she claimed it was bad for her voice. He struck a match and let the flame sear the end of the cigarette. The first deep pull set his lungs on fire. He held in the scorching breath until he couldn't take it anymore, then released it in a long, slow hiss. In his head, images looped over and over – doors closing behind the swish of skirts, locks drawn that he hadn't even known existed, stacks of letters addressed in an unfamiliar hand - until he felt dizzy. He knew it was cowardly, but if he could do it over again, he never would have told Christine about his doctor visit. Even better, he wouldn't have gone at all. A month ago, he would have said that he would do anything to ease her guilt, including taking it upon himself, but in no scenario did he ever imagine this torment. He stubbed out the spent cigarette and lit another.

An hour later, as Raoul swirled the dregs of his second drink round his glass, a whoosh of street-sounds echoed from downstairs as the front door finally opened. He swept the small pile of crumpled cigarette butts out of sight, and straightened his spine. There was no point trying to smooth down the hair which he knew looked as disheveled as his thoughts.

Christine appeared in the doorway, clutching her little beaded bag in both hands. Her eyes flicked from the empty table, to the glass clutched in his hands, to his clenched-jaw smile.

"Darling," he said, suppressing the quaver that was attempting to distort his voice. "You've missed dinner."

Christine widened her eyes in what looked to him like an actress portraying surprise. "Oh, I did, didn't I! I'm so sorry – I hope you ate without me."

"I did," he lied. As if he could force anything into a stomach as tight as a fist. Raoul sat back in his chair, a faux-casual arm draped across the back. He cleared his throat to make way for an indifferent tone. "You were out late. What were you up to?"

He wasn't certain if it was just a trick of the candle light, but it looked as if a blush was working itself over his wife's face, creeping across her rounded cheekbones and leaving her lips looking bloodless by comparison. "Oh, I stopped in for a visit with Madame Giry," she said, perhaps a touch too fast. "Just for coffee, but then she invited me for lunch, and next thing I knew they were lighting the lamps." Her lips pressed into an apologetic smile. As he scrutinized her face, her eyebrows shot up suddenly. "Oh! I almost forgot!" She snapped open her bag and pulled out a small, sealed envelope. "She asked me to give this to you. I have no idea what it's about."

Raoul turned the envelope over in his hands. On the back was his name, written in Madame Giry's unmistakable block print. He unclenched his jaw and sighed out the painful breath he'd been holding. "Thank you," he said, tucking the letter into an inner coat pocket as she watched him with curious eyes. "I'm glad you had a nice time." He smiled broadly at her, feeling suddenly light. "Can I have them fetch something for you to eat?"

She blew out a little breath and shook her head. "No, no thank you. We ate lunch quite late. I'd actually just love to go lie down. It's been such a long day," she said, taking a little step back toward the hallway.

Though Raoul could feel his lips begin to form his automatic 'Of course', his raised spirits urged him on, and he bit down on the words, stilling them on his tongue. "Actually," he said, smoothing a small wrinkle from one lapel, "I was hoping to talk to you for a minute."

Christine wavered for a moment on her short heels, her bag gripped tight in one hand, before joining him at the table.

"I'd been thinking..." Raoul began, just as he'd rehearsed. "We haven't really spoken about our future."

"Our future?"

"Well, I mean, we talked a bit about adoption, and I thought maybe we could, you know, revisit that." Her blank expression made his tongue feel thick in his mouth, and his words came stumbling out. "The- um, the orphanages are overflowing with uh, beautiful children, and..."

"Raoul." Christine laid one warm, gloved hand over his. Her lower lip was pinned between her teeth, the corners curving despite her effort to suppress them. She drew in a deep breath. "I know how much we both want children, but this is not the way for us. It's not that I couldn't love that child – you know I would – but you know how hard it's been for your parents to accept me; imagine that burden falling upon a poor child. It's awful enough for a child to be without their natural parents, but then to spend the rest of his life living in the shadow of the heir that never was? I couldn't do that. I don't want to. And I don't think you truly want to, either."

Raoul searched his wife's face. Her clear gaze was unflinching, her mouth set in a firm line. He slumped back in his chair.

"So that's it for us?" he asked, trying not to sound dejected. "We just give up and move on?"

"We move on, yes. And I suppose we'll just have to find a new way to create meaning in our lives." It seemed as if she would go on – he could almost see the words on the tip of her tongue – but instead she clamped her lips shut and arranged them into a gentle smile.

Raoul nodded, but he knew he didn't need to find anything: the only thing that had any real meaning in his life was Christine.

She looked like a queen, sitting shoulders back and spine straight on the glossy lacquered chair, her hands folded upon her lap, distant and untouchable. There was nothing on earth he wouldn't give to bring back the wide-eyed girl who had once dashed across a rooftop to fling herself into his arms, clinging to him as they whirled around, lost in the heat and sweetness of each others' lips. Absolutely nothing.

* * *

A/N: About the story...I know we're seeing a lot of Raoul, and I hate to tell ya, but you're going to see even more of him in the next chapter. However, you'll also be seeing some You-Know-Who (hint: not Voldemort), so don't give up just yet!


	6. The Fool

**The Fool**

Twenty minutes more, then he'd send her maid in after her. Raoul's eyes flicked to the clock again - nineteen minutes. He turned back to his plate, slathering an extra dose of butter on a thick piece of crusty bread. It was his third piece. He'd devoured the first two, along with a hunk of mild cheese and an entire bowl of cut fruit, quickly enough to elicit a raised eyebrow from the servant. How long had it been since his clenched-fist stomach been able to manage more than a cup of coffee and a covert cigarette, smoked out on a seldom-used balcony? Today, there didn't seem to be enough food in Paris to quiet his pleasantly jumpy stomach. He picked at the crumbs.

Sixteen minutes.

Raoul tugged at one end of the white satin ribbon, readjusting the bow which topped the small, flat box. He bit down on the smile he could feel twitching on his lips. He didn't want to jinx it, but he couldn't help but feel that things were improving. Over the last week, Christine had been rising earlier, dressing more carefully, and had even returned to running errands and making social visits. She'd called on Madame Giry a few times, which he knew must be doing her well. No...he still hadn't moved back into bed with her, but he didn't want to rush her. And besides, he had a surefire plan to restore their lost intimacy. He drummed his fingers on the box with a satisfying tap-tap-tap, checked the clock and sighed.

Fifteen minutes.

With just three minutes left before his will-power officially expired, Christine swept into the room, dressed in full, swishing skirts, her hair pinned up in neat curls. She hadn't even managed to sit down fully before Raoul, nearly bouncing in his seat, slid the little box across the table to her. "Go on, open it," he said, his eyes jumping between the gift and her curious face.

He watched her graceful hands pluck at the ribbon, letting the smooth satin slip through her fingers and fall loose on the table. She lifted the lid, extracted two slips of paper, and fanned them out on the tabletop.

"Italy?" she asked, her eyes scanning the train tickets in front of her.

"Yes, Italy!" Raoul said, sliding forward to the edge of his seat, "I thought we could stay a month or so. It could be a second honeymoon." He reached across the table and took her hands in his. "It could give us a chance to reconnect after..." he cleared his throat, "after everything."

Raoul scrutinized his wife's face for the first sign of delight, waiting for her eyes to crinkle, or for the familiar little dimple on her left cheek to appear. Finally, her taut lips began to soften, shaping themselves to whisper...

"Oh."

Raoul blinked. "' _Oh_?'" he repeated, startled by the hitch in his voice. "Darling," - somewhere, far in the back of his mind, he registered that he was squeezing her hands just a little tighter than he'd intended - "I have to admit, that was not quite the reaction I was hoping for," he said, with a laugh that sounded metallic around the edges.

Christine's eyes jumped to his, wide and supplicating, "No, no, Raoul, it's wonderful! But...next week? It's so soon. And for so long..." She trailed off and pressed her lips into an apologetic smile, but her hands felt dead-fish-cold in his.

Raoul dropped them, vaguely repulsed.

He leaned back in his chair, bracing himself, the edge of the table biting into his palms. "Did you have other plans?" The words tasted as sour as they sounded.

Christine chewed her bottom lip. "No, of course not, it's just..."

He stood, his chair scuffing out behind him, cutting her off. "I'll ask the agent if we can reschedule." He snapped up the tickets and stuffed them back in the box. As he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, he could see his wife's stricken face staring at the empty space on the table where they'd been.

Back in his study, his blood thumping in his ears, he flung the box into a waste bin. A few moments later, he fished the tickets out again, smoothing them between trembling fingers.

_Just tell me how to fix it._

_Fix it? Let me be quite clear. There is no 'fix'._

The paper ripped with gratifying finality. Once, twice, three times, four – over and over until the whole silly idea was nothing but a pile of rubbish to be swept into the bin.

…

God, he hated the smell of roses. The cloying sweetness was thick in his nose and throat, choking him, like stepping into a cloud of some shop girl's cheap perfume. That's what it was: a scent like someone's idea of romantic, luxurious beauty. But overdone, artificial in its perfection. Intoxicating, but suffocating.

The terrace garden was like a monument to that ideal. Neatly shaped rose bushes in oversized decorative pots, each petal perfect, each leaf glossy to the point of appearing lacquered. A few feet ahead of him, his mother stood with a basket hanging from one arm and a pair of sharp-tipped golden scissors in the other. Towering over her was a plant covered in cream-colored blooms the size of his hand. He could hear her tutting her disapproval as she inspected each blossom, until finally, one met her standards, and with a flash of gold and a decisive snip, the flower was detached and placed in the basket atop a pile of chosen others. She set off down the path again, with Raoul trailing behind her, waiting to be acknowledged. He couldn't wait to leave.

The plants were the Comtesse's pride and joy, though Raoul wasn't sure she should be able to take much pride in something she hadn't lifted so much as a finger to help grow. She would select the varieties, but from there on out, the cultivation was left strictly to the gardeners. And, of course, she would reap the reward.

Raoul used to love the garden. As a child, he'd hide amongst the plants, his hand smothering fits of giggles as he waited for his governess to find him. Back then, the flowers were the most beautiful thing - their open faces innocent and eager, their scent fresh and heady. He would imagine himself in a forest, each blossom a colorful bird perched in the branches. But one day, when the air was thick with the humidity of summer, making it seem as though he could taste the roses in the back of his throat, he backed into a pot set up on a carved ebony stand, and the pot and the very rare miniature rose it held came crashing down to the tiled floor. After that, he was forbidden to set foot onto the terrace. He stayed inside, surrounded by vases of cut roses, arranged with heartless precision.

"Alone again?" His mother asked, not even troubling herself to glance back over her shoulder at him.

"She had some, ah, urgent letters to write," he said, gritting his teeth into an apologetic smile. "You know how it is." Honestly, Raoul hadn't even thought of asking her. He couldn't bear to hear another excuse.

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun kissed the exposed skin of his neck and the back of his hands. The warmth made him twitch. He recognized that the day was glorious. It was one of those last warm days before the crispness of fall sets in, with a cloudless blue sky, and the softest touch of breeze. He shifted and squirmed in the sunlight, like a nocturnal animal disoriented by venturing out in the daytime. It felt obscene to be out enjoying a day as nice as this.

A snip, and another blossom was placed into the basket. "Ah...I thought she might be out again. You know...my kitchen maid spotted her, just last week, at a café with that Giry woman."

Raoul scuffed at the tile with the toe of his shoe. "That's not surprising. She's been spending quite a lot of time with her lately."

"I could never understand why. She seems so dreadfully dull."

"She's the closest thing Christine has had to a mother."

"Ah yes," she said, "forgive me. I sometimes forget the tragic origins of the poor waif you rescued." Raoul was grateful that her back was still turned toward him; he could feel his eyes rolling heavenward of their own accord.

They walked along in silence for several minutes more, with Raoul trailing behind as his mother tutted and snipped. His neck began to prickle under his stiff collar. This ridiculous show of play-acting the role of obedient son was a waste of precious time. He belonged at home, in the cool darkness of his study, beating at his thoughts, trying to force them to reveal some hidden key.

Raoul had always been able to make things right. For every problem that might arise, he was ready with a solution. When Christine's scarf had been caught by the wind and tossed into the sea, he didn't hesitate for even a moment before running headlong into the surf to snatch it from the sucking embrace of the gray, foaming waves. When she'd pressed her face into his chest, the wind whipping at them and the lights of Paris glimmering far below, she'd begged him to take her away. By midnight, they'd been cocooned in his finest carriage, the city lights fading in their wake. Now though, he could do nothing. He'd been forced to accept that there was no path that would lead them to what they'd yearned for. It was terrible, but he believed they could make it through, together. But now...now he realized he stood on the edge of a canyon, and his wife on the other. His only purpose now was to search for anything at all that would allow him to construct a bridge.

Raoul had had enough. He opened his mouth to ask if he might tell the maid to start their tea, but the Comtesse paused, the scissors in her jeweled hand open, poised to take another flower.

"You know, I must say..." Her cadence was casual, but there was a tight, self-satisfied tone to her voice that made the muscles across Raoul's shoulders tense, "it was quite a surprise to me that a woman, so...unappealing as Giry would have such a handsome, well-dressed brother." Her scissors closed on the stem with a snap. "Or so my maid described him."

"What?" Raoul shook his head, vaguely irritated, as if a small fly had perched on his brow. "Madame Giry doesn't have a brother."

"Oh, doesn't she? Well, now I'm truly confused." Finally his mother glanced back over her shoulder. Her hard eyes glittered. "Then who was the man sitting with them - the one whom I heard was chatting so intently with your wife?"

Raoul could see his mother's mouth moving - the only thing still in focus. Everything else had gone dark and fuzzy, and was undulating in a way that forced him to take a bracing step to ensure he was still on solid ground. Through the whoosh of blood rushing in his ears, he could hear her voice, artfully bemused, helpfully describing the man in an attempt to help Raoul place him: blonde-haired, moustached, maybe a few years younger than Giry? And yes, _very_ handsome, _very_ well-dressed.

Cold was spreading from deep inside Raoul's belly, trickling down his legs, seeping through his arms. Inside his shoes, his feet tingled, itching to move, to carry him out of this place where the suffocating scent of dank soil and wilting rotten-sweet petals wouldn't allow him to draw enough breath. His heart pumped an urgent message: Get out get out get out.

He blinked, and the world snapped back into focus. Raoul could feel his head nodding, his mouth stretching into a smile. "Oh, him? That's just an old friend of Giry's. A conductor, I think. He'd been abroad." He smoothed his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead in a motion he hoped appeared nonchalant. "Christine, ah, volunteered to help make some introductions for him, now that he's moved back to Paris."

His mother stared at him through narrowed, flinty eyes for several moments, while he struggled to keep his face blank-page smooth. He'd never been a good liar. Finally, she turned with a shrug, not even bothering to reply.

…

The curtains of the study were drawn, the fire extinguished, the door locked. Once, some hours ago, the doorknob had rattled, and Christine's muffled voice had called his name several times, her tone rising in confusion with each repetition. He held his breath until he heard her soft footsteps fade down the hallway.

Behind his closed eyes, he was back in the doctor's office. The scene played and looped and played again, until he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't actually hearing the man's exasperated voice.

_'Monsieur. Let me be quite clear. There is no 'fix'. It is - and always will be - impossible for you to father children. Do you understand me?'_

This first part was almost comforting in its familiarity. He'd learned the truth of those words, had planned to find a way to make his peace with them. But the scene shifted, and his roiling stomach sent a fresh wave of acid into the back of his throat. His mind had always shut down before the final minutes of their exchange, without him even intending it. But the words had remained there, back in the deepest recesses: a coiling snake, ready for its chance to strike and spread its poison through his veins. He had tried to convince himself that his wife had not come to the same conclusion. He had been a fool.

_"Do I understand?" Raoul's voice seethed through gritted teeth. "Oh, I understand. I understand that I was right about you from the first." He shot from his seat and pulled a fistful of francs from his billfold. "You, 'Doctor', are nothing but a fraud, plain and simple. You don't know a damned thing." He slammed the notes onto the desk, snatched up his coat and hat. He raised his chin, defiant. "You'll see. My wife will have a baby."_

_The doctor held up a placating palm."Now, wait one moment, chap." He gathered up the francs, tapping them into a neat pile. "I never said she wouldn't. She very well could," he adjusted his glasses, then extended the stack of money back to Raoul with a cool smile "...with another father."_

...

The doctor's words echoed in his mind all night. A drum beat of pain, pounding out its incessant rhythm. By the time the blackness behind his lids turned to glowing red – the signal to wake from what was never sleep – the repetition had transformed the words with brutal clarity. A path appeared before him, lit full-moon bright.

…

Raoul flicked away the stub of his spent cigarette. It landed with a faint hiss on the wet cobblestones, and he ground it out with the toe of his shoe. The damp, musty scent of fresh rain on the alley's hot sidewalk rose from beneath his feet. The rain had stopped, but the streets had yet to refill with its usual bustling crowds. He opened his little silver case and withdrew a fresh cigarette. Just one more, but he'd have to make it quick. It was now or never.

In the end, he had to thank the doctor. The retort which was meant to sting – a goal which had certainly been accomplished, the barb throbbing away in his heart for weeks now – was also plain truth. A plain truth which could either be his undoing, or become his salvation. It all came down to a matter of control.

He rubbed his bleary eyes with his free hand. How much sleep had he actually gotten since that day in the garden? It felt like something that happened months ago, yet the sun had only set twice. Or at least he thought it had. Enveloped in the darkness of his study, never eating, hardly sleeping, he couldn't quite be certain. He took a long drag on his cigarette, let his eyes follow the stream of jaundiced smoke blown out through tight lips. Far down, where the alley met up with the street, a carriage rumbled across, sending up a spray of murky water as it rolled through a puddle of quickly stagnating rain. His head felt hollow. He took another long drag, savoring the burn in his lungs.

Once he could see the path before him, deciding to venture down it was easy. It felt inevitable, really. He could be selfless. He had laid his life down for her, hadn't he? He could bear anything, so long as he kept her love at the end.

The devil, really, was in the details.

He'd made lists, puzzled through scenarios, racked his brain for an alternative. In the end there was only one answer.

Raoul tossed the spent cigarette, this time making no effort to put it out. He glanced down the alley to the street: it was empty. He pulled a small leather-wrapped flask from an inner pocket and drained it in one long swallow. It blazed a path down his dry throat and set his belly on fire. It was nice to feel something other than numb.

One last time, he scanned the street: still empty. He had to do this. It was time to make the first lurching step down this fated path. He crossed the alley in seconds, and before he could give himself a chance to change his mind, he slid open the rusting grate and made his way down into the secret pathways under the Opera.

* * *


	7. Down Once More

**Down Once Mor** **e**

In the protracted moment between catching his toe on an unseen rock and plunging face-first into the lake, Raoul had to acknowledge that he might have overdone it with the liquor.

Of course he wanted to live, but he was so very tired. As the foul, frigid water began to rise above his head, he felt himself surrender. His hands ceased scrabbling at the slick, mossy stone and his legs became heavy and limp. It really wasn’t worth the panic, the effort. Not when the numbness spreading through his chest felt so comfortingly empty. 

He let go, and the world turned black.


	8. An Unparalleled Delight

**An Unparalleled Delight**

A prickle of heat spread across Raoul’s face like the ghost of a slap. Thick, acrid smoke filled his nostrils and tickled the back of his throat. He tested his sore, screwed up eyes, but could see nothing but spinning black stars against flickering orange light. For a wild moment, he feared he might be in Hell.

He tried to sit up. His mouth tasted brackish, like it had been filled with stagnant, black water. His stomach wrenched, and he gagged as he felt its contents rise up his throat. Doubling over, he heaved up a bellyful of bitter water, still burning with the smoky tang of whiskey. It soaked his shirt, flowed through his cupped hands, and splashed onto what appeared to be a very fine Persian carpet.

An exasperated sigh sounded behind him.

“That was gifted to me by an actual Persian prince, you know.”

All these years later, the voice was still just as he remembered it: as soft and rich and beautiful as velvet. Lazily arrogant, but with a coiled-snake core. His skin prickled.

“Well,” the voice said with a sigh, followed by the soft thud of a book being closed, “at least I needn’t drag your corpse up several flights of stairs and find somewhere to dispose of it.”

Raoul attempted to arrange himself with as much dignity as possible, which was nowhere close to enough. He was sprawled across a silk-covered couch which had been pushed directly in front of a blazing fire. He was barefoot, wearing only his still-damp trousers and shirtsleeves, streaked with drying mud. A clock sat on the mantle. Thank God, he hadn’t been out long; less than an hour since he’d stepped off the street. He grimaced and sucked in a deep breath; the air was damp and smelled of wet stone and furniture polish. He turned to face the room. 

In its fundamentals, it remained just as he remembered it. It was still uncanny: a smartly furnished sitting room in a place where it shouldn’t exist. It still felt oppressive, with its cold, windowless walls and creeping shadows; its essence, however, had transformed entirely. Gone were the scattered piles of paper, the manic charcoal sketches pinned to the walls, the gaudy props pilfered from above. All evidence of the shattered mind who lived there had been cleared away, leaving only a tidy, comfortable home that could have been lifted directly from any upper middle-class dwelling in Paris. Perfectly ordinary. 

Except for _Him_.

He — the... _Phantom_ — sat like a bored king, weary of his audience: ankle crossed over a knee, elbow propped on the armrest of a throne-like armchair. The smooth white mask made his face appear ageless. The contemptuous set of his jaw, the polished-rock hardness of his eyes was like looking at a memory. Only a few tiny lines etched around his unmasked eye revealed that any time had passed. Raoul could feel himself staring, helpless. 

The fingers of the Phantom’s free hand tapped a ticking-clock rhythm on his knee. “Felt like a little rest after that swim?” One dark brow arched over an unreadable, glittering eye. 

Raoul’s head was pounding, each throb a pulse of pain which felt like the inside of his skull was being hollowed out with a spoon. He racked his brain, attempting to summon the line of reasoning which had led him to his current situation. For the first time in days, the haze of alcohol and cigarettes and sleeplessness had cleared, and this newfound clarity did not do his confidence in his logic any favors. This whole plan had sounded a lot better with a few glasses of brandy under his belt...and before he’d gone tumbling headfirst into the underground lake.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of watching the Vicomte de Chagny nap upon my settee?”

Raoul winced, heat rising up the back of his neck. 

He steeled himself. This was it: foolhardy or not, it was time to put his plan into action. He opened his mouth to recite the words he’d prepared, and out came...nothing but a rasping, strangled sound, like an alley cat choking on a fishbone. 

The Phantom’s lips pressed together in what Raoul felt with stomach-sinking certainty was an attempt to suppress a smile. He was silent for several beats, then rose and strode around Raoul to where a high-backed wooden chair sat to one side of the fireplace, upon which Raoul’s jacket was drying.

“Don’t bother. Rest your voice,” he said, lifting the jacket and holding it out with one hand. “I think I might be able to divine your motives myself.” His free hand disappeared into the folds of cloth, and returned with Raoul’s well-worn flask pinched between two long, fine-boned fingers. 

“A midday refreshment, or...liquid courage?” He shook the flask, then uncapped it and tipped it into the fire. A lone drop slid from the mouth and fell into the flames with a pop and a hiss. “A little _too_ much courage, perhaps.” He arched his brow. “I’ve always thought that too much courage tends to border on stupidity. Though I think you and I might have a difference of opinion on that point.”

The hand with the flask disappeared into the jacket again and this time reemerged with a small, sodden notecard, with a single word written in block print, each letter bleeding ink. “‘ **HOME** ’?” he asked, a puzzled expression on his visible features. “And, if I’m not mistaken… No, it couldn’t be! Is that...my dear friend Madame Giry’s handwriting?” He turned to Raoul, scandalized.

Raoul glanced toward the door, the edges of his ears blazing. He cleared his throat again, this time managing a hoarse, stuttered “I…I...”

“Pay her to keep tabs on me, and inform you when I come and go from Paris?” 

Raoul’s heart dropped into his stomach. 

“Oh, I know.” He paused, apparently relishing Raoul’s stricken expression. “In fact, I pay her twice as much to make sure that she tells you what I want you to know. And to keep me similarly informed, of course.” He tucked the card into his pocket, replaced the jacket on the chair, and assumed a thoughtful pose.

“Confirmation of my whereabouts, and more than a sip or two of whisky… One could assume that you were plucking up the courage to come kill me.” He fixed Raoul with such an icy stare that a cold sweat broke out immediately on the back of his neck; he shook his head violently in protest. “One _could_...but I wouldn’t,” The Phantom continued, a twitch at the corner of his mouth giving him away. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t believe that even you are stupid enough to try. Besides, if I thought it were a possibility, that would make me even more stupid for pulling you out of the lake, you drunken wretch.” 

Raoul shrunk into himself. This had been a spectacularly bad idea, a complete mistake. No, more than a mistake: he’d gone temporarily mad. 

And yet...wasn’t genius sometimes born of madness? 

Raoul cleared his throat once again. “And I,” he croaked, smoothing out the roughness in his throat with a thick swallow. “I really would like to thank you for that.” His voice was ragged, but serviceable. He sat up a little straighter. “I know I’ve given you no reason to-”

The Phantom cut him off with a cool wave of his hand. “It was nothing. And I won’t be distracted with apologies and ingratiation. I am still owed an explanation.” He gripped the back of the chair and stared down at Raoul. “You want something from me...but are afraid to ask?” Raoul’s silence could only be taken for assent, and he continued. “Could it be...money? Don’t tell me you’ve secretly squandered your fortune at the tables!”

“No, that’s not it at all!” Raoul shook his head, hard, his cheeks inexplicably burning. 

“No? I thought there was no greater humiliation for you people than poverty.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “So, not murder, and not money. What could it be then?”

Sitting under the unrelenting glare of a man who’d once had him strung up by the neck not far from this very spot, Raoul not unreasonably began to worry that he’d lost his nerve. He opened and closed his mouth several times, attempting to get his useless tongue to form the right words.

“You look like a fish, Vicomte,” The Phantom said, his tone teasing but his eyes hard. “Maybe I should throw you back in the lake.” 

Raoul clasped his sweaty palms together in supplication. Everything rested on him getting this right. “No, please, wait...” 

“I _am_ waiting,” The Phantom replied through gritted teeth. “And you should know that I find waiting quite tiresome. This is your last chance.” He stood up straight: shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes challenging. “I won’t ask again.” 

Raoul pressed his fingertips over his eyes, wishing more than ever that the alcohol was still fuzzing his brain. This had been so much easier in his whisky-soaked imagination. “We need…” He released the last shred of his dignity with a long sigh. “...a child.”

With the exception of the thudding of his blood in his ears, there was nothing but silence for an immeasurably long moment. He bit his lip and forced himself to look up at the Phantom.

His raised brow was arched in an expression of genuine bafflement. 

“A _child_?” He fixed Raoul with a wry, quizzical look. “What, were you under the impression that I’m running an orphanage down here?” He swept his hand across the room. “I certainly don’t see any children lying about - do you?” 

Raoul’s cheeks flamed. The creeping tension that had been hardening the lines of the Phantom’s body evaporated, and he collapsed onto the chair, chuckling to himself. 

“What I mean is,” Raoul began, his voice sharpening, “we haven’t been able to have a child and I…”

“Thought I might steal you one? Oh, of course!” he said, with mock sincerity and a flourish of his hand. “Please Vicomte, make yourself comfortable while I pop up to the surface and snatch you a baby. I’ll only be a moment.” His eyes glinted with undisguised glee.

“This isn’t a joke!” Raoul said, triggering a burst of derisive laughter which rang in his ears and echoed in his head, blending with the hearty chuckle of Dr. Simmons. Around the edges of Raoul’s vision, the room began to shimmer like heat off the pavement in the height of summer. His chest buzzed. “Listen!” he shouted, hammering his knees with his clenched fists. “This is serious! I’m not able to get Christine pregnant and I need _YOU_ to!”

His piercing voice echoed in the sudden silence.

A slow-moving wave of nausea engulfed Raoul. The temperature in the room seemed to have jumped twenty degrees. He longed to wipe away the sudden trickle of sweat at his temple, but his arms could only hang stupidly at his sides.

Beneath a furrowed brow, the Phantom’s eyes were fixed on his, though his gaze was closed and inscrutable. A minute’s worth of heartbeats passed.

The Phantom blinked slowly, and then stood with an impossibly straight spine. He smoothed his waistcoat with his palms. “We’re finished here,” he said, his voice pure indifference.

“But-”

“Enough.” He held up a palm, the long, pale fingers rigid. “This was amusing for a while, but you’ve overstayed your welcome. You need to leave. Now.” He strode across the room to an overstuffed bookcase and began rearranging books, pulling a few out and stacking them in a neat pile on the side table. He didn’t even bother to turn to look at Raoul as he spoke. “Since you’re obviously concussed from your fall and I’m feeling generous, I’ll allow you a moment to gather your things. But,” he wagged a warning finger over his shoulder, “if the next words out of your mouth are anything other than ‘Goodbye, I’m leaving and never coming back,’ then you’d better be prepared to walk home through the streets of Paris barefoot.” His hands stilled, and he waited, shoulders tensed.

Raoul eyed the door longingly. Turning tail and running sounded like the best possible outcome at this point. But here he was, standing in front of his last best opportunity to keep his wife. True, he’d been half-drowned, humiliated, and was possibly in mortal danger...but the Phantom hadn’t exactly said no. 

He made sure he’d gathered his shoes and coat and had a clear path to the door before he tried again. “Please,” he said, trying to sound more like a man with a serious proposal and less like a petulant, pleading child, “you must hear me out.” He took a large, confident, and only slightly-wobbly step towards him. 

Raoul’s foot had hardly hit the ground when the Phantom whipped around, his expression wild. “No,” he spat, the word like a slap, “the only thing I must do is try very hard to remember that I am no longer a murderer.” He paused, shaking his head in bewilderment. “What is _wrong_ with you? How dare you think you have any right to ask me for a damn thing.” He began to advance upon Raoul, who mirrored each step with his own step backwards. “I’ve already given you everything. Everything! You think I owe you my time? My consideration?” 

Raoul felt his back press against the solid wood of the door. “All this time I never, not once, interfered in your life,” the Phantom continued. “But you trespass, stumbling drunk, into _my_ home, to try to make a fool out of me with some, some...grotesque _joke_ , and somehow _I’m_ the madman?” The Phantom now stood inches from him. His eyes were aflame, but the corner of his mouth just barely trembled. “Now,” he whispered, his hands clenching and unclenching as if they were itching for a handful of Raoul’s throat. “GET. OUT.” 

With his free hand, Raoul clawed at the doorknob. “I’m going, Erik, I’m going!”

The Phantom flinched, as if stung. A fleeting look of confusion passed over his face. “What?”

Blood rushed to Raoul’s face, stinging his cheeks.. “Is that...not your name?” he asked haltingly. He knew he was an idiot in many respects, but he thought for certain that was the name Christine had told him. 

The Phantom - no, _Erik_ \- took a step back, assessing him with calculating eyes. “Oh, I have a name now? I thought I was ‘Monster’, or ’Demon’, or maybe ‘That... _Thing_ ,’” he said, each name spat out like something bitter. 

Raoul cringed. “Well, Christine said...” he began - and then it happened. At the sound of her name, the cool veneer of contempt cracked, exposing something pure and painful and as raw as an exposed heart still throbbing beneath a split rib cage. It lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was unmistakable. 

Finally, a chink in his armour, and damned if Raoul wasn’t going to exploit it. “It’s what Christine always calls you,” he finished, hoping he sounded convincing. He hadn’t outright lied, she _had_ called him that, but he was certainly taking liberties with the term ‘always’. 

Erik didn’t back down, but Raoul noticed that he was holding his breath, and he would have sworn he could detect a slight tremor in his hands.

“She told me more than just your name,” Raoul said, hoping that he was making good use of his last chance and not about to push his luck too far. “She told me that...that she believes there is a lot of good in you.” 

Erik scoffed. He turned on his heel and began pacing back and forth, but he didn’t interrupt. Raoul pressed on. “She said that you’ve changed. That she can feel it in her heart.”

Erik whipped around to face him. His eyes were narrowed, though the expression now felt more shrewd than menacing. “And you believed that enough to try to come here?” While his voice was still harsh, the venom seemed to be draining from it. “We both remember what happened the last time we met. You don’t think I might welcome the opportunity to rewrite the end of the story?” He scowled. “At the very least, I could have let you drown.” 

“But you didn’t. Which proves her right.”

Erik continued to glare at him from across the room. His arms were crossed, but his shoulders had relaxed, and, Raoul noted with relief, he still hadn’t asked him to leave. He spread his hands and tried for his most earnest expression. “I’m sorry, I’ve done an awful job of explaining.”

“We are agreed on that,” Erik snapped.

Raoul released his breath. “Please, let me try again. I promise I will throw myself back into the lake when I’m finished if you want, but I can’t go without trying to help Christine.”

Erik arched an eyebrow. “I may hold you to that, Vicomte.” He stepped back and swept a hand toward the settee. Raoul sat, and waited for Erik to do the same, but he simply remained in place with his feet planted and arms crossed.

The fire warmed Raoul’s back. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt the heat start to seep back into his bones. He tried to clear his mind of everything that had happened over the last hour or two. He needed to focus if he was going to do this properly.

He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “I know the sacrifice you made, letting her go,” he said in a practiced voice, hoping he sounded like a calm, reasonable, and very sane man. “And I’ve tried to honor that by making her as happy as I possibly could.”

“Move along, Vicomte,” Erik interrupted, glowering. 

Raoul gave him a sheepish grimace and forged ahead. “However, I’ve failed her in one of the most basic ways. She desperately wants a child.” An unwelcome thought started to surface, a challenge to the truth of those words. Raoul pushed it back down before it had the chance to fully form. _Of course she does._ “A baby,” he continued. “And I can’t give her that.”

Erik’s scowl faded. “You don’t mean to say you’re…” he paused, a nasty smirk spreading across his face. “ _Impotent_?” 

“No! Not at all!” Raoul was indignant, despite his pinkened cheeks. “We’ve _always_ had quite a…” The deadly look of warning on Erik’s face stopped him in his tracks. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. He swallowed the last of his pride. “I saw a doctor...I’m sterile.” 

The silence his admission was met with was somehow worse than the insults he’d braced for. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his lids hard enough to see stars. “My _God_ , can you imagine how humiliating this is for me to say to you?” 

“Yes,” Erik said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I do believe I can.” Raoul had never heard anyone sound so pleased. His stomach roiled.

He changed course quickly. “Adoption is out of the question, so-”

“Why?” Erik interrupted. His tone was not one of curiosity, but of irritation - irritation which was quickly replaced with understanding. “Ahhh...an heir.” Raoul’s silence was confirmation of the obvious. “That’s right, poverty may be the biggest humiliation to the aristocracy, but inability to produce an heir is not far behind.” 

Raoul scuffed at the rug with his toe. 

“So,” Erik began, his conversational tone not quite disguising the hitch in his voice, “why, _exactly_ , are you here?” 

“As I said, we can’t adopt, so that leaves one other option: if I can’t do it…” he gestured towards Erik.

“You can’t be serious.” 

“If you had any idea how much this means to her…”

Erik shook his head, unbelieving. “And you’re asking…” 

“You. Yes, I’m asking you. I’m begging you, really.” 

The two men considered one another from across the room. The tick-tick of the clock on the mantle marked time as the silence stretched on. Finally, Erik took a few heavy steps and collapsed in the chair opposite him.

Raoul’s confidence began to swell. He knew he could fix this. All that was left was for Erik to formally agree. “So, will you?” he asked. His stomach did a little flip.

Erik squinted at Raoul as though genuinely surprised by the depth of his stupidity. “ _No_ ,” he said, his tone at once astounded and disdainful. “Of _course_ not.” 

“What?” Raoul blinked. “Why?”

Erik snorted in derision. “Because it’s ridiculous and it’s vulgar and I don’t think you have any idea of what you’re getting yourself into, were you to actually go through with this asinine plan.” 

“And I don’t think _you_ have any idea of what we’ve been through,” Raoul said, his tone as hot as the blood fizzing in his head. Images of Christine’s tear-streaked face flickered behind his eyes and he shook his head to clear them. “This is nothing,” he huffed. “I can bear it if it brings her happiness.”

Erik sat back in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests. He was silent for a minute, two. Finally, he sighed. “This is not to say that I’m giving any consideration to this plan, or that I even condone it in the first place, but...I have to ask the obvious.” His voice softened. “Why _me_?” 

“The short answer is that no one else cares as much about Christine,” Raoul answered easily. “Believe me, I thought through so many different options. But who else could truly be trusted to have her best interests at heart? Who could we be sure wouldn’t turn around and sell his story to the highest bidder or spill her secret after one too many drinks down at the bar?”

Erik stood and walked around Raoul to the fireplace. He picked up the fire iron and prodded the smoldering logs, sending up a shower of sparks. “Couldn’t you just sail to America and find some blonde-haired, blue-eyed idiot to do the job?” he asked, his expression pinched, as if the suggestion tasted as unpalatable as it sounded. 

Raoul twisted around in his seat to face Erik fully. “Do you really think an _American_ would handle this situation with the delicacy and class it requires?” Raoul scoffed. “Could anyone else truly be trusted to treat her like the treasure she is? Or…” Raoul paused, doing his best to infuse his voice with an appealing flavor of deep gratitude and admiration. “If they were to develop feelings for her, could simultaneously love her...and let her go?” 

Erik went still. The tip of the fire iron hovered over the flames. 

A slithering feeling of uncertainty turned Raoul’s stomach. Uncomfortable thoughts began to tickle at the edge of his consciousness. Surely, though, he had simply made a mistake by dredging up the painful past. He flicked his eyes away from Erik’s whitening knuckles. 

Raoul cleared his throat. No more talk of the past: it was time for unabashed flattery. “And then of course, there are the obvious strengths you bring to the table.” He began counting on his fingers. “A genius, musical…” 

“And this?” Erik turned, gesturing to his mask. “Would you like this passed on as well?”   
The mask glowed amber in the firelight, the deep black rippling shadows seeping from beneath its edges hinting at what lay beneath. 

Raoul swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. “Do you really think that’s possible?” He had been fairly confident that he knew the answer. _Was he wrong?_ He shifted in his seat. “I mean, excuse me for saying so,” he said, grasping for the most sensitive way to put such a touchy subject, “but I assumed your mother must have experienced a shock, or had seen something…” he trailed off under Erik’s withering, incredulous look.

Erik rolled his eyes and tossed the fire iron onto the hearth. “I suppose I can’t say that I’m surprised you believe such simple-minded superstition,” he sighed. He stepped around the settee and settled back into his armchair. He threaded his fingers together and stared down at his hands. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but his nails were pressing white half moons into the backs of his hands. “To be honest, I really don’t know why I had the misfortune to be cursed with this face. It’s entirely possible that it was just an extraordinarily unlucky random occurrence, but...I certainly couldn’t promise that any offspring of mine might not be subject to the same fate.” He was silent for a beat, then flung his hands down, and looked up at Raoul with an expression as pointed as his tone. “And how do you think life would be for _Monsieur le Vicomte_ and his wife if they were to welcome a child who was the exact likeness of the Opera Ghost?”

“I’ve already thought about that,” Raoul said quickly. 

In truth, he had not. Between his delirious predawn plotting and his near certainty about how Erik had come by his deformity, he’d skimmed right over the issue. But now was much too late to turn back - he’d figure things out, somehow.

“It’s worth the risk,” he said decisively. 

“And your wife?” Erik asked, his voice just above a whisper. “She feels the same?”

Raoul tugged at a stray thread on his cuff. “Well…” His eyes darted to the door.

The room went silent. Erik stared, unblinking, his eyes gone flat and dark. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said in a tone which matched his eyes, “that she doesn’t know you’re here?” 

Raoul’s stricken expression gave him away. He made a mental note: he really needed to work on that.

“ _She doesn’t know you’re here._ ” This time it wasn’t a question. A deep red flush was creeping up the pale skin of Erik’s throat towards his jaw, which was clenched tight enough to break teeth. 

“Not exactly, but...” Raoul stopped short as Erik rose from his seat and turned his back on him. 

“I’ll give you the count of three,” Erik said, his voice low and lethal, “and if you’re not out that door, you can forget the lake - I’ll murder you right here, with my bare hands.” 

Raoul snatched up his things and was on his feet in seconds. He had no intention of waiting to find out if the threat was the hyperbole he hoped it was. “Fine, fine! I’ll leave! But please, just, think about it. For her sake!”

“ONE.” 

Raoul scooted around chairs and tables and scurried to the door. He clutched the brass knob, but didn’t turn it. 

“She’ll say yes, I’m sure of it! I just didn’t want to get her hopes up if I didn’t have a commitment from you.” 

“TWO.” 

“I’m going, I’m _going_!” Raoul was more than halfway out the door. He paused, considering Erik’s rigid shoulders and trembling hands. He was close, so close... 

“If she says yes, will you do it?” Raoul asked softly.

Erik swung around and faced Raoul with a sneer. “Oh, of course!” he exclaimed, his voice rich with irony. “I’ll even sing at the christening.” 

Raoul couldn’t help the stupid grin which bloomed on his face. “I’m going to hold you to it!” he called out, and slammed the door behind him. 

* * *

Alright! All caught up. Working on the next chapter now and will have it up as soon as I'm able. Thanks for reading!


	9. Delectable Agony

**Delectable Agony**

The good news was that it didn’t look like the carpet would stain. 

The bad news was that after a hiatus of almost six years, Erik was fairly certain he might have to kill again.

Not that he _wanted_ to. But then, Erik hadn’t wanted a great many of the things that had come to pass in his life. He’d had to learn earlier than most that you often have no choice but to play the hand you’ve been dealt - even if you’d never wanted to play cards in the first place.

All he had wanted was a few days of peace in the subterranean stillness of his old home, to take a break from the work which he let consume him completely. Spending the night talking himself out of murder had not been on the agenda. Neither had been scrubbing the contents of the little vicomte’s stomach out of his prized Persian carpet, but here he was, working a soft brush into the fine wool and trying not to retch from the sour-smelling mix of lake water, whisky, and bile. 

His shoulders ached, both from the scrubbing and from the tension which had been pulling each muscle tight enough to snap ever since he’d made the mistake of allowing that half-mad _fool_ to start spewing his nonsense. Erik wasn’t entirely sure what to make of all that had passed between the vicomte and himself, but he was _quite_ sure that he didn’t like it: didn’t like that he’d been caught off guard, didn’t like the strain of pretending he _hadn’t_ been, and _especially_ didn’t like sharing so many words with a man he wished he could simply forget even existed. 

Having finished with the carpet, Erik pushed the furniture back into place, tossed Giry’s note into the fire, and took up his book again, satisfied that he’d erased all signs of the vicomte’s presence. But trying to focus on the words on the page was futile; they couldn’t possibly compete with the whispers swirling in his head. He glanced up at the clock. It had been a little more than half an hour since the boy had scampered out his door - he must be nearly home by now. 

Erik took in a deep breath, held it, counted to five, blew it out slowly. It was true, he had changed. No, he wasn’t perfect, but he’d at least committed himself to giving up the worst of the worst offenses: no more stealing, no more stalking or kidnapping, no more murder. A deliberately crushing workload had helped keep him in line, as had a handful of silly - but effective - tricks he employed for keeping his emotions in check. But now, that foolish boy had quite literally stumbled back into his life, and all the hard-won change suddenly seemed precarious. 

The next breath didn’t come easily. The thought of _her_ , unhappy, had snaked through his chest like sinuous, suffocating vines, stealing his breath away. Her happiness was still the only thing that truly mattered to him, even after all these years. Sending her away in the arms of her _valiant lover_ was supposed to ensure that she would have all she could ever want or ever need. 

In all fairness, that alone should be reason enough to kill the boy. 

But that wasn’t what made his hands itch for his lasso. 

Erik shot from his chair, nearly tipping it over. He needed to pace, and this room simply wasn’t big enough. He snatched up his cloak, easily navigated the narrow, unlit paths and echoing corridors, and climbed high, higher, until he was as far from his suffocating underground home as he could possibly go.

In the moonless night, the city was a canvas filled with inky smudges suggesting streets and buildings, overlaid with a sprinkle of warm, twinkling fairy lights. Somewhere, farther than he could see from his rooftop vantage point, a light would soon appear in the window of a grand townhouse. _Would he wake her right away, too eager to wait until morning? Or would he slip into bed beside her, silent, patiently awaiting the rising of the sun?_

 _Goddamn it_ , he should have killed him before he’d even made it to the surface. 

The proposition itself wasn’t what propelled Erik’s feet to pace the length of the rooftop again and again, as the wind whipped at his cloak and the whispering in his head grew louder and more insistent. It was true, what he had told the vicomte: he found the whole idea shocking, indecent, and frankly, stupid. (It was also true that it set his wicked pulse racing - he couldn’t pretend otherwise - but _that_ he kept to himself.) At the moment, though, even with the certainty that it couldn’t end in anything but disaster, he wasn’t overly preoccupied with the particulars of what the scheme entailed.

No, the whispering in his head had been singing a different song, one that dripped with honeyed poison. 

It was the shameful stirrings of hope.

He’d worked for years to extinguish any and all such feelings, as if tirelessly stamping out each useless ember in a nearly burnt-out fire. But now it was apparent that he had not been as successful as he’d thought, for something had caught and flamed, and now inside his chest his heart burned hot and painful. 

He _hated_ it. 

He’d tried so hard to avoid it, even going as far as allowing white-hot rage, that old companion he’d banished years ago, to come charging back, full-force. He could have happily strangled that insolent boy right where he stood. But then, suddenly, unexpectedly...there’d been his _name_. Yes, it had been from the vicomte’s lips, but it meant that it had first been on _hers_. Real, concrete proof that she _hadn’t_ only referred to him by one of his unearthly aliases, or worse, labeled him as nothing but ’monster’ to her gallant hero; she’d graced him with his humanity.

Could it be possible that he still meant something to her? It was a question he’d expressly forbidden himself to ask, let alone ponder at length. But the terrible heat in his chest was blazing, melting the icy fortifications he’d built up to surround and protect his most cherished, most forbidden memories - the ones which were as bitter as they were sweet - the ones which, in the early days in London, had often come to him at night in feverish, delirious dreams, from which he woke in the morning feeling hungover, as if he’d passed the night with several bottles of wine.

_First there was the shock of touch where there had never been another’s touch; then the taste of tears, briny and sweet. Warmth flowed into him from her lips, along with a tenderness that transformed. For the first time in his life, he saw himself reflected in her pleading, hopeful eyes not as an angel, or a phantom, but as a man._

Yes...and he’d also never felt more like a monster - he mustn’t forget that. 

_The first kiss, that was for him. A demonstration that she was willing to submit in order to free her lover. But the second kiss...he could have sworn that one felt-_

_NO. NO MORE._

Erik stopped his pacing. He held his sorry head between his hands and let it hang, heavy. This thread of memory held a perverse ache of pleasure...but it also twisted and looped until it became a silken noose. He knew he had to cut the thread, now.

And yet…

 _...there was the feeling of her melting into him, the startlingly hungry crush of her lips, and there was the way_ he _had to be the one to sever the connection… And then, most tormenting of all, that last view of her tear-streaked face, looking back as her lover led her away by the hand._

But that’s right, isn’t it?

He let her go - she _went_. 

She _left_ , and didn’t come back. 

She _didn’t_ want him. If that night hadn’t proven that, then the many years following certainly had. 

His heart spasmed beneath his clutching hands. 

_THIS_. _This_ was exactly why he kept these memories, these thoughts, locked so securely away. 

Because...he could so easily slip away from reality, lost in the past. 

Because...it _hurt_. 

Because the agonizingly intoxicating spiral of what-ifs couldn’t possibly last: 

The stupid boy hadn’t actually _asked_ her! 

When he did, she would be horrified, disgusted. And Erik wouldn’t blame her - he was horrifying and disgusting, after all. A kiss was one thing, but _this_ … And when he’d had confirmation he was correct in his assumption? To have hope rekindled only for it to be crushed beyond recognition? Well...he was certain he would not survive it. 

Really, the only reasonable solution was to kill the vicomte before he could say a word.

Erik turned on his heel and made for the winged statue which crowned the building. The bronze, chilled by the post-midnight air, was cold beneath his palms. He scaled it effortlessly - he’d had plenty of practice. Below, the city lights had begun to wink out - few enough remained that it was hard to tell where the night sky ended and the city began. The darkened streets would allow him all-too-easy passage to his target. Then it would be a simple enough job to draw the vicomte out and silently dispense with him before he even knew what hit him.

 _So then_ why _hadn’t he done it already?_

He knew by now he might well have missed his chance… Had it been intentional? Could it be that some secret part of him was holding out hope that she would agree? 

That outcome was impossible to contemplate, like trying to stare into the sun.

His head throbbed. He slumped against the statue, letting his unmasked cheek rest against the cool, rippling folds of the figure’s sculpted robe. He couldn’t say how many hours he sat above Paris, arguing with himself until he was numb, but as the richness of the black sky began to fade to sooty gray, signaling the sun’s approach, Erik had become certain of two truths: He didn’t want to feel all of these feelings anymore, and...he didn’t want to kill. 

And so it was that finally, reluctantly, Erik came to the conclusion that if he was to keep his hands unbloodied, there was only one thing to do: remove himself from the temptation.

It was time to go home. 

**…**

Private trains cars were not cheap, but they were well worth the expense. All it took was enough francs pressed into the right palm and an out-of-order sign would appear, allowing Erik to make the trip from Paris to Brussels in comfort and safe seclusion.

Life after his stint as the Opera Ghost had not always been so safe and comfortable.

In the immediate aftermath of that disastrous night, there had been pain beyond imagination - enough to drive him north to the sea, where he spent long hours perched on a cliff, staring down at the foaming sea as it dashed itself over and over on the rocks below. In the end, he’d been too much of a damned coward to end it all. Instead, just as the sun began to turn the water from black to inky purple, he spotted the light of a ship wink on not far down the shoreline, and he ended up taking a (ludicrously expensive) trip across the English channel on the salt-worn boat of a hesitant, yet shrewd fisherman. He arrived in London with nothing but the clothes he’d escaped in...which happened to include a fat stack of francs he had sewn into the lining of his jacket months prior, for just such a situation.

The gloom of a London winter suited him perfectly. He holed himself up in the seediest part of the city he could find, in a grimy one-room flat owned by a landlord who didn’t ask any questions other than “D’ya ‘ave the rent?” 

He lasted far less time there than he had expected - as it turned out, wallowing in your misery is actually quite boring. 

After a few months, tired of the squalid surroundings and the monotony of uninterrupted self-torment, he left London and traveled East once again, visiting Bucharest, Istanbul, Ankara, then - prudently skipping Persia - going north to Kiev, before finally starting the long journey home: to Rouen. Those few years alone, always moving, living meagerly on the fringes of society, picking up odd, unlovely jobs when he could - and picking pockets when he could not - felt like penance enough, and by the end, he was ready to settle down and enjoy all of the old creature comforts he used to hold so dear: soft linen bedding, good French wine, well-tailored clothes, and, dearest of all, his masochistic, self-indulgent suffering. And what better place for that than a stone’s throw from his childhood home, the first place he’d learned that love was something he would never be worthy of. 

There was no question that he wasn’t worthy of Christine’s love. 

He’d done the right thing in sending her away with her lover - it was likely the only truly right thing he’d ever done in his life. Keeping her against her will had never really been an option, he knew that. Honestly, he couldn’t even say exactly what he’d intended his endgame to be. Desperation drives men to do insane things, and if that man happens to be insane to begin with, well...clearly not a whole lot of rational thought had gone into the plan. 

Oh, he’d been sane enough to know that he couldn’t _make_ her love him, but damned if he wouldn’t burn the world down trying. He funneled all the years of pain and rejection and frustration into a rage that blinded with its heat, that deafened with the roar of blood in his ears - a suffocating red fog that cleared with a kiss, fairytale-like. It was all over for him then. The only thing left was to free her...from his horrible prison of a home, from his soul-enslaving music...from him.

In Rouen, he immersed himself in those memories, turning them over and over in his mind, probing them to produce a thrill of pain, the way you might tongue an aching tooth. The amount of wine necessary to accompany such intense brooding does not come cheap, so before long, the money began to run dry. Poverty can make a man, even one as attached to his notions of romantic melancholy as he was, become quite practical: it was time for the steady paycheck of honest employment. 

He sent a letter to Paris, to his old friend who had so _kindly_ moved there from Persia to “ _keep an eye on him_ ”, and who, Erik hoped, bitterly, had spent the subsequent years feeling the sting of his incompetence in that task. 

Within the month, the pair had moved to Brussels, and with Erik as reclusive master architect and Nadir as chief of operations and the face of the company, they soon built quite a lucrative business renovating the city’s endless supply of old buildings. As the work picked up, he found he had less and less time to devote to heartsick yearning, and those moments of blissful apathy were so refreshing that he decided it was time, finally, to eliminate his torturous desire to love and be loved, once and for all. 

Clearly, he would have to stop glutting himself on the delectable agony of those most tempting, most tormenting memories of Christine, treasured though they were. But that was not all: music would have to go, too. Not that he’d felt its stirrings since she’d left, but he thought it best not to take any chances. As soon as he felt he could manage it, he made a short visit to his dust-covered and thoroughly-cobwebbed home beneath the opera. Having figuratively locked away the most tender portions of his heart, he now very literally locked away the last remnants of his musical soul: his piano, his violin, and piles and piles of his hand-written manuscripts. 

He would work. He would stick to pursuits which did not inflame the soul. And he would live his life with the righteous conviction that his sacrifice - all that grief and all that pain - was but a small price to pay for the happiness of the one he loved best in the world. 

That was how he planned to live out the rest of his days, until he finally earned the sweet release of death.

Leave it to that incredible idiot _Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny_ to foul everything up once again.

  
  


* * *

  
_First off, I hope that you're all safe and healthy and happy. I'm grateful to have this as a much-needed escape, so thank you for reading._

_Good news! I made it almost completely through a very long chapter before I realized that it was actually TWO chapters. Chapter 9 is more than half done, so it will be coming in a week or two._

_Thank you for the reviews and messages - I loved hearing from you all!_

_-Flora_

_PS - More Erik next time. :)_


	10. An Appalling Idea

**An Appalling Idea**

The train steamed into the station just as the sun began to light up the city’s stone buildings a pale, watery gold. Erik really should have at least _tried_ to get some sleep on the ride from Paris to Brussels, but instead, his mind had decided to regurgitate the most painful parts of his past. He spent the time struggling against the deluge, only barely managing not to drown, until at last it slowed to a manageable trickle. By the time his feet hit the sidewalk, he felt comfortably drained, though his heart still throbbed and his stomach still twisted - he might have dealt with the past, but there was still the present to contend with.

The torturous mental trials he’d put himself through did at least come with a payoff: he was now clear-headed enough to approach things rationally. By leaving Paris, he had taken himself out of the equation. Whatever the boy might tell her and however she might react was of no consequence to him now; all that mattered was that he stick to his course. He’d been successful so far - he had not killed. Now it was time to get to work on snuffing out the little flame of hope that had been so cruelly rekindled...

And he knew just the man to help with the job.

Erik checked his pocket watch; Nadir would be at the job site by now, not far from the train station. Erik knew the streets and alleys of Brussels well, and could make his way to his destination by slipping through the shadows with ease.

Within a quarter of an hour, he’d arrived at a battered old church with an uninspired, but handsome gothic facade. While it was one of the smaller and less impressive of the city’s many offerings, its status as shabby and overlooked was a large part of why he accepted the job in the first place. They’d been tasked with a complete redesign of the exterior, as well as with refreshing and reinforcing the interior, which is where he knew he’d find Nadir. Their work was in its earliest stages; as overseer, Nadir would be supervising a small crew as they began their preparations. 

The small tree-lined courtyard was empty. Erik breathed in the coolness of the morning air, damp with the scent of the dew-slicked stone beneath his feet, and exhaled, long and slow. As uncomfortable as it would be (clearly, a person who had built themselves a secret home in a deep, dark cellar valued their privacy), he’d come to the conclusion that the best course of action was to tell Nadir about his conversation with the vicomte. A firm shove in the direction of reality was exactly what he needed - and the sooner, the better. 

He flexed his hands, loosening muscles made stiff from hours spent clenched into fists. The rough, weathered wood of the door chafed his palm as he pushed the heavy, arched door open, the hinges groaning in protest. He passed through the narthex and into the nave. The space was tall, narrow, and very dark - a cave of deep red brick and polished mahogany, studded with glowing jewels of stained glass. Erik was struck with a feeling of breathless reverence, despite the tired, musty atmosphere...and the fact that he wasn’t exactly what one would call a... _religious_ man. Not only had he effortlessly broken more than his fair share of commandments, he didn’t feel particularly inclined to seek forgiveness for them, either. While the irony of Erik designing a house of God was not lost on him (nor on Nadir, to whom it was a source of endless amusement), that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the trappings meant to be enjoyed by the blessed, even if he was Hell-bound himself.

The chipped wooden pews had been pushed to one side of the nave, making space for the crew of three men, who were assembling a ladder as they chatted softly with one another. Near the altar, Nadir hunched over a table scattered with papers and well-worn brass tools. Erik hovered along the back wall, tucked into the shadows alongside a richly embroidered, but dusty and rather threadbare tapestry. He unfurled hands that had once again reflexively curled into fists, squared his shoulders, and announced himself by softly clearing his throat.

“Erik!” Nadir looked up with a smile, his eyes crinkling behind gold-rimmed spectacles. “What a nice surprise to see you here! I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow!” His smile faltered. He paused, and a crease appeared between his brows. “I hate to have to ask...but would you mind stepping away from that beautiful tapestry?” The corner of his mouth began to twitch. “I’d hate for it to catch if you should suddenly burst into flame.” 

“Yes, that’s very clever, Daroga,” Erik replied flatly. “Though decidedly less clever than last time. Or the time before that.”

“And the time before that, I know, I know…” Nadir chuckled. He left his papers and wound his way through piles of equipment and discarded overcoats to Erik, clasping his warm hands around Erik’s in greeting. “Let an old man have his fun.” 

“Fun?” Erik scoffed, his tone cloaked in faux outrage. “You’re supposed to be working! What are you being paid for, anyway?” 

Nadir gave a playful shrug. “Oh, just for doing all of the work which you find so distasteful: meeting with clients, hiring the crew, supervising their work… In short, anything that requires you to interact with your fellow man.”

"True...only I’m not so sure they’d call me fellow,” Erik said, squinting at the small crew from over Nadir’s shoulder. They had given Erik respectful nods as he entered and then studiously ignored him.

“Not when you’re skulking about in the shadows like that.” Nadir took him by the elbow. “Come, Erik, let’s go take a look around outside and get ourselves better acquainted with our new baby,” he said, patting the dingy brick wall. 

The opportunity had come much sooner than he’d expected. Erik arranged his features into a neutral expression and nodded his assent, trying to ignore the feeling that his stomach was attempting to turn itself inside-out. 

They’d only made it a few steps when Nadir stopped and turned. “Emile, could you please bring me my notes?” he asked, calling across the room to the crew. A young man popped his head up. He was an apprentice, barely out of school, with a blonde wisp of a moustache and a pencil permanently tucked behind one ear. Erik had argued, strongly, against taking him on. 

The boy bounded across the room, scooped up a leather-bound notebook, and hurried it over to Nadir, his face plastered with the smile of the over-eager. “Here you are, Monsieur Khan. Anything else?” the boy chirped, looking at them both in turn, his eyes conspicuously avoiding Erik’s mask.

Nadir was responsible for briefing all new crew members on their other, much-less-involved employer, explaining that he wore a mask due to a disfiguring accident, and if they cared to keep their jobs, they should avoid ever mentioning it. They followed that advice very well, rarely speaking to him at all, unless out of necessity. Erik was especially appreciative of that fact today, when even the sight of the insufferable youth set his teeth on edge. 

Nadir thanked the boy and then paused, thoughtful. “Actually, yes. Why don’t you come along with us - you can take n-”

“ _No_ ,” snapped Erik, cutting Nadir off decisively. He stabbed a finger toward the wide-eyed boy’s chest. “ _He stays_.”

The boy looked helplessly to Nadir, who turned to Erik with a questioning frown.

“What?” Erik said, lifting his chin. “I’m in no mood to have him following along, nipping at my heels like a pup.” Even to his own ears, his tone was markedly haughty.

Nadir turned to the apprentice with a chagrined smile and an apologetic spread of his hands. The boy nodded, crestfallen, and walked back to the group of men, this time without that annoying spring in his step.

**…**

Out in the courtyard, Nadir gave Erik the look he saved for occasions when he felt Erik had been particularly churlish - an expression that managed to be both disappointed and unsurprised. 

“What was that about?” Nadir asked, tucking his notebook under his arm.

“What was _what_ about?” Erik replied, indignant. “You know I’m not fond of that boy. I should be asking you what _you_ were doing, inviting him along without bothering to ask me first.”

Nadir rolled his eyes up to the sky and sighed. “I don’t have the energy this early in the morning to explain basic civility to you, Erik, so you’re being spared the lecture...for now.” 

To the west of the church, along the opposite side of the narrow, cobblestone street, two shopkeepers flung open their doors and shouted greetings to one another across an already half-filled cafe patio. Erik nodded toward the east side of the church, where a flat, grassy path bordered by a low stone wall ran the length of the building and terminated in a small, overgrown garden. The two walked along in silence, save for the hum of city sounds drifting along on the soft morning breeze. Fall was just beginning to set in - the scent of summer greenery was still heavy in the air, but the edges of the leaves on the trees which flanked the church had been dipped in gold. Winding trails of russet-tinged ivy climbed skyward up the crumbling brick, reaching for the rising sun. 

Nadir was first to break their silence. “How was Paris?” he asked, glancing sideways at Erik. “You’re back much sooner than I expected.” 

“Yes, sooner than I expected, too.” Erik brushed his fingertips along the brick - they came back with a coating of grit and sooty brown dust. “As it turned out, I didn’t care to have so much time alone with my thoughts.”

“Really?” Nadir stroked his thick, graying moustache. “I thought you loved nothing better than to bask in your own genius.”

“Oh,” Erik said, pausing to blow the dust from his fingers, “but I can appreciate my intelligence so much more when I have _yours_ to contrast it with." The comforting familiarity of their easy patter softened his ever-present tension just enough to allow the hint of a wry smile. 

Erik forced himself to turn to face Nadir. He wouldn’t get a better lead in for what he needed to say, as much as he wished he could put it off just a few moments longer. He exhaled. “Actually, I…” 

He faltered, the words evaporating on his lips. 

Being forced to see reason may be what he _needed_ , but, god help him...he wasn’t sure it was what he _wanted_. 

Not just yet. 

Yes, each beat of his heart was a stab in the chest, but he was starting to think it felt better than the long years of feeling nothing at all. 

Maybe he could have just one more day?

Nadir raised an eyebrow.

“I…” Erik began again, entirely unsure of what would follow. But before another word could form, from behind him came the sound of feet slapping the grass, growing steadily louder. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the blistering tide to rise in his chest unimpeded, until it was ready to overflow.

Erik rounded on the pink-faced apprentice with a vicious snarl. “I told you to stay away!” 

“I’m sorry, sir!” the boy cried, recoiling. “I was just bringing Monsieur Khan this, sir!” He held out an ivory fountain pen, its intricate carved designs smoothed by years of use. Nadir’s pen - his favorite. It vibrated in the boy’s trembling hand.

Nadir stepped forward quickly and took it from him. “Thank you, Emile,” he said in his softest, warmest voice. “And, please, don’t worry. I think Monsieur Erik must be tired from his travels.” He cut a sharp look in Erik’s direction. “Why don’t you take a break, Emile. Go get a coffee.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out a few coins, and pressed them into the boy’s palm. “On me.” 

A whispered “thank you”, and the boy was off running. 

Nadir turned to Erik, his brows knitted into a scowl. “Now really, Erik. That poor child did nothing wrong. I know that you don’t care for him, but you’ve been unusually waspish, which is really saying something.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on!” The white-hot anger had already begun to cool and harden into something resembling shame - not that he would ever admit it. 

“So you’ve just decided to come back early to terrorize that young man?”

“Of course not. He has nothing to do with anything.” Erik turned away, tossing his words back over his shoulder dismissively. “I’m just not in the mood to be so around someone so unbearably irritating.”

“Is that so?” Nadir raised a skeptical brow. “And may I venture a guess as to why you find him so _‘unbearably_ _irritating’_?” His eyes were still kind, but his tone had sharpened.

Erik thought that his withering glare was a good indication that he’d rather no guesses were ventured, but Nadir continued on, regardless. 

“Could it be that he reminds you of a certain someone from your past?”

Clearly, Erik could see where Nadir was going with this. He crossed his arms across his chest.

“An eager young man...earnest, gregarious…”

Erik would have gone with pushy, naive, and obnoxious, but Nadir was entitled to his opinion.

“...blonde, handsome?” 

Erik slitted his eyes in a look of warning. 

“One you were quite jealous of?”

Hot blood thudded in Erik’s ears. Any thoughts of keeping his secret for just a little while longer were tossed aside - all he could taste was the bitter thrill of vindication. “No, he does _not_ ,” Erik hissed. “And as for the _someone_ you’re referring to, it just so happens that I came across him while I was in Paris, and I can say quite confidently that there is no longer _anything_ to be jealous of,” he said, punctuating his declaration with a particularly nasty smirk.

There was a moment of silence as Nadir blinked at him, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, Nadir’s eyes began to widen with dawning realization. “Erik, you didn’t…”

“Oh relax, you sanctimonious old fool. That’s not what I meant,” Erik huffed. “I didn’t harm a single golden hair on that beautiful, empty head of his. In fact,” he continued, ignoring Nadir’s overly-loud sigh of relief, “it was quite the opposite. If it weren’t for me, he’d be dead.”

“What on earth are you talking about,” Nadir asked, frowning.

“Well…” He’d done it. He’d opened the box and, like it or not, there was now no closing it. He looked around to confirm there was no one within earshot and then continued: “Well...it seems he’d had one drink - or several - too many before he attempted to call on me. Obviously, anyone with any sense would agree that excessive drinking and attempting to navigate poorly-lit walkways near dangerous water features is a terrible idea, but sense isn’t really something he’s been overly burdened with, is it?” With each word the heaviness in Erik’s chest began to lighten, and the feeling of buoyancy spurred him on. “Unsurprisingly, he ended up in the lake. I heard the bell and went to investigate, and found him in the water, sinking like a well-dressed sack of potatoes.” He paused, giving his dumbfounded friend a moment to let the story sink in. “I suppose you’ll be pleased to know that rather than let him drown, I fished him out, and without a moment’s hesitation,” Erik finished, with not even the slightest bit of enthusiasm.

“Yes,” Nadir replied, grinning as appreciatively as if he’d been the one pulled out of the lake. “I am _very_ pleased. Well done, Erik,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Perhaps...but perhaps not.” Erik gestured to a more private spot, just beyond the church, where the garden’s unkempt hedges provided a screen from prying eyes. “I think it might have been a mercy to just let him drown. You’d never guess why he said he came.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say that it’s not because you’re such pleasant company,” Nadir said, still grinning.

“Yes,” replied Erik, “and thank you for that. You never miss an opportunity to remind me of my shortcomings, do you?” 

Nadir shrugged. “I do what I can.”

“And I do just fine on my own, thank you,” Erik said, not missing a beat, “but as I was saying…” The two stepped into the shadows, and Erik lowered his voice. “I know you’re aware that the vicomte and... _his wife_...have had no children,” he said, as Nadir nodded. “As it turns out...it's not for lack of wanting.” 

Nadir’s face creased with sympathy. “Oh, how awful for them!” 

“Yes, truly awful.” Erik agreed, attempting what he hoped passed as sincerity, and most likely failing. “Understandably, they’re quite distraught. And then there’s the added pressure of needing to secure his line with an heir… He’s _quite_ desperate.” He paused for effect. “Desperate enough to ask for my help.”

“Your help?” Nadir asked, puzzled. Then a flash of light sparked in his eyes. “Oh god, Erik, “ he said, a note of rising panic in his voice. “Please tell me you haven’t gotten caught up in some sort of kidnapping plot!” 

“My god, of course not!” Erik scoffed, shooting Nadir a dirty look...though in truth, he was not nearly as offended as he pretended to be. 

“Well that’s a relief,” Nadir said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and patting his brow. “That would be low, even for you.” 

“I appreciate the compliment, such as it is. But no...it was even more absurd than that,” Erik said, stepping closer. “He asked for my _help_.” He leveled a meaningful look at Nadir and waited for comprehension. 

It didn’t come. 

He tried again. “I’m, ah, to provide the baby... _directly_?”

“I’m sorry Erik, I don’t-”

“ _Oh goddamn it_!” Erik whispered furiously. “ _He asked me to impregnate her, you obtuse idiot_!” 

Nadir blinked hard, stunned. “Wait... _what_?”

“Well, it’s quite simple,” Erik said, in the same admittedly pedantic tone he used while explaining the details of his building plans. “He claims a doctor has told him he’s sterile, so it would be impossible for him to father a child. The idea is that someone else could do it - that someone being me.”

He blew out his remaining breath. He’d done the hard part. Now he would simply wait for Nadir, practical and reasonable as he was, to tell Erik what he already knew: that it was a bad plan, he would only get hurt, and he absolutely should not get involved.

Erik shifted his feet on the uneven ground, watching his friend’s thoughts play out upon his face: bewilderment, consternation, wonder, and then finally, revelation.

He looked up at Erik, eyes wide...and burst out laughing.

He laughed long and hard - much longer and much harder than was warranted, in Erik’s opinion. Erik gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the fizzing heat which was building behind his breastbone

After what was, frankly, a gratuitous amount of time, Nadir’s fit of laughter died down and he managed to catch his breath. “I’ll say it, though it’s one of my least favorite phrases: You’re right, Erik.” Again he pulled out his handkerchief, removing his spectacles to dab at the tears which had begun to leak from his eyes. “That truly is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. The whole idea makes absolutely _no_ sense, none at all,” he chuckled, readjusting his spectacles and pocketing his handkerchief.

Heat began to spread up Erik’s throat from beneath his collar. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say it makes _no_ sense,” he said, taking a step back and looking down at Nadir with narrowed eyes. “He had some fairly compelling logic, some well-thought-out reasons. And he did seem quite sure of himself.” He braced his hands on his hips. “I had quite a time of it, trying to dissuade him.”

Nadir raised an eyebrow. “And did you?” 

“As I said, I tried,” Erik said coolly. “He was very insistent.”

“But you said no, of course.” 

“I didn’t agree, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I’m asking _specifically_ if you said no,” Nadir said, looking down his nose at him like a schoolmaster interrogating an impertinent pupil. “You did say no, Erik?”

Erik exhaled sharply through pursed lips. “Who cares what I did or didn’t say? It’s not happening.” He stepped around Nadir and began to walk out of the shade of the hedge, heading toward the rear entrance of the church.

“It’s not happening because you don’t think it’s _likely_ to happen or because you refused?” Nadir asked, right on his heels.

Erik spun around to face him. “I’m not going to argue semantics with you, Daroga.”

“Erik,” Nadir said, placing a steady hand on his shoulder and looking him straight in the eyes. “ _Please_ promise me you’re not seriously considering this appalling idea.”

“ _Appalling_?” Erik huffed, shrugging off the hand. ”That’s rather insulting, Daroga.” 

“No, it’s a _fact_ ,” Nadir said strongly. He sighed, his shoulders slumping in resignation. “Look, do you need to hear the many, many, _many_ reasons why the whole idea is horrible, or would you just like the reasons why asking you, of all people, is _spectacularly_ horrible?”

The heat that had scorched his chest and throat began to seep into his belly - the tide was rising once again. Erik took a deep, cooling breath. “As I said earlier, I hardly need your help to remind me of my shortcomings, thank you,” he said from between gritted teeth. 

Nadir put up his hands in a defensive, conciliatory gesture. “Alright, alright, understood!” 

Erik turned, giving him a sullen look out of the corner of his eye. “Just forget about it. Obviously, I’m not considering it.”

“Then I’m glad to hear that,” Nadir said evenly. He pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “Now, did you have any interest in actually working this morning, or were you planning on spending the rest of the day sulking?”

Erik shook his head. He wasn’t sure how this discussion had gone so wrong, or...perhaps he just didn’t want to think about it too hard. He felt drained, boneless, which at least was preferable to his prior state of being crushed by tension and impaled in the heart with a spear of searing longing. If his goal had been to annihilate all hope, well, _bravo_ \- job done.

“You know, Daroga,” Erik said with a tired, sideways smile. “You, of all people, should know what happens to those who dare to address me with such blatant disrespect.” 

“Yes, I do,” Nadir replied, trying to suppress a sly smile. “They save your sorry skin from certain death, only to be repaid by being exiled from their homeland, and then are forced to spend the rest of their days putting up with your frequent fits of pique and endless brooding.”

Erik smiled again, only this time it was a smile of the rarest sort: full, genuine, and full of gratitude. “You are a good friend, aren’t you?”

“And your only, as a matter of fact,” Nadir said with a quick wink, as he flipped open his notebook again and uncapped his pen.

It was true, Nadir was a good friend. Yes, Erik would have preferred that he’d brought him crashing back down to reality in a less...humiliating fashion, but still, he’d said what Erik needed to hear, the way only a true friend could. 

And yet…

After having felt compelled to defend the proposal, Erik couldn’t help but wonder…

Was it possible that it might make a certain sense after all? 

And what if she did agree? Could Erik really turn her down? Wasn’t it true that he would do anything for her? 

Couldn’t he temper the flame of hope just enough to keep it burning without letting it engulf him? He could keep his expectations low - even five minutes in her presence could be enough to sustain him for the rest of his days...couldn’t it? 

They’d arrived at the rear entrance of the church. Nadir held open the door and nodded for Erik to go in first. 

Erik hesitated at the base of the steps leading to the entry. “Just out of curiosity,” he said, attempting to keep his tone light and airy, “suppose I _were_ to consider it…?” 

Nadir let the door swing shut with a creak and thump. “Erik.” He pressed his fingers to his temples and released a short stream of Persian curses under his breath. Erik couldn’t make it all out, but some rather unsavory things were said about Erik’s late father. “You promised to stay away from them!” 

“So I did,” Erik shot back. “And so I _have._ But I made no promises about what might happen if _they_ came to _me_.”

“Now who’s arguing semantics?”

“She’s _unhappy_ , Daroga! How can I _not_ get involved? I can’t go on knowing she’s unhappy,” Erik all but whined, wishing he sounded more passionate than petulant. “Her happiness is my only reason for living! What else do I have?”

“Spare me.” Nadir said, rolling his eyes harder than Erik would have thought possible. “You’re far too attached to your martyrdom. You’ve chosen to waste the last five years of your life wringing every last drop out of your ‘sacrifice’. It’s high time you make your life about your _own_ happiness, instead of hers.” 

“Alright then, so what if it makes me happy to get involved?” Erik arched his brow. “It’s a pretty good deal for me, after all,” he said with a smirk.

Nadir snorted derisively. “You know, if you’re really so hard up you could find another woman.”

Erik lifted his chin. “There has never been and never will be another woman for me,” he proclaimed. Never had he said a truer thing in his life. 

"Well, that's a problem, isn't it…" Nadir began slowly. He had a shrewd look in his eyes, like a gambler assessing his odds, finding them lacking, and deciding to shoot the dice anyway. "I hate to have to say this, but this isn't exactly your area of expertise, is it? I mean, a _doll_ isn't quite the same-"

This time there was no gradual build up, no warning - the white-hot molten rage erupted, and Erik's vision was bathed in blood red. He took the steps in one large bound and grasped Nadir by the collar. "Whatever it is that you're implying," he hissed, gripping the fabric even tighter as Nadir stared back defiantly, "I can assure you that, as usual, you have _no_ idea what you're talking about. And if I were you," He pressed in close, his voice lethal. "I would not talk about it - any of it - _ever again_." He flung Nadir against the door with a satisfying thud, turned on his heel, and stalked all the way home, never once looking back.

**…**

They didn’t speak to one another for five days.

**…**

On the sixth day, a letter arrived - addressed in Giry’s distinctive block print.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_Hey, hey! Happy Father's Day! This took longer than expected because it ended up expanded beyond what I'd first planned, but here it is. I wanted to get it up today, so please excuse any typos I'll fix or tweaks I might end up making in the future. Coming up...Raoul and Christine! What are those two crazy kids up to? Find out in Chapter 10!_


	11. A Night at the Opera

**A Night at the Opera**

Things were finally starting to look up for the Vicomte de Chagny.

His plan was progressing better than he'd dared hope, and though he couldn't yet see a light at the end of the tunnel, he could now at least believe one would eventually appear.

The strategy involved many steps, each taxing in its own way. The first had, quite literally, nearly killed him, but the risk to life and limb had paid off in the end: enlisting a proxy was sorted. The night he returned from beneath the opera, he'd crawled out of his filthy clothes and into bed, and immediately dropped into a blissfully dreamless sleep, satisfied that soon, all his problems would be solved. It hadn't mattered that he hadn't _technically_ gotten an agreement from Erik - Raoul had seen all the answer he needed in his eyes.

Raoul gave himself a once over in the hallway mirror, adjusting his collar and smoothing his hair. He looked much better than he had in weeks; his skin was clearer, his eyes less red. It was incredible what adequate sleep and a few days without cigarettes and alcohol (well, without _much_ alcohol, anyway) could do for a man's appearance. That had been the second step, and it had been a crucial one. He knew he'd never be taken seriously if he came to her stinking of drink and desperation, so it had been necessary to swiftly recreate himself as her charming, attentive savior, ready to sweep in once again with a plan to ensure her happiness.

Once he'd accomplished that, the following steps had been completed with surprising ease. But the one he was now preparing to face... _that_ was the one that made him wake each morning in a cold sweat.

"I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

Raoul turned at the sound of his wife's voice to see her descending the stairs in a swish of shimmering sapphire silk, pleated and ruffled and heavily bustled. He took her hand as she stepped onto the landing. "Not at all, my darling," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. Against the deep blue of the gown, her skin was as pale and luminous as pearl. "You look absolutely incandescent."

"I think that's just nerves," she giggled, and flicked open the lace fan hanging from her wrist to cool her flushed cheeks.

"Are you certain you're ready for this?" Raoul asked, his voice weighted with just the right amount of concern.

"As ready as I'll ever be." Her smile was tight but not forced. "Honestly, we probably should have done this ages ago."

Raoul hesitated for a moment before replying. "I didn't realize you wanted to."

She dropped her gaze. "I don't think _I_ realized I wanted to," she said softly, glancing up at him through lowered lashes. "I'm glad you asked." She smiled the smile of the shy little chorus girl she'd once been, and Raoul's stomach did a quick flip in his belly.

"As am I." He smiled in return and offered her his arm. "Well then, shall we?"

…

Raoul wasn't much of an admirer of architecture, but the sheer grandeur of the massive marble building never failed to inspire awe, with its soaring columns and majestic arches showcasing a small museum's-worth of art, all crowned by the regal copper dome. The winged statues which stood sentinel on the rooftop glinted gold in the setting sun. It had been less than a half-dozen years since the night they held each other under the shelter of a gilded wing and made promises of never-ending love and companionship, though tonight it seemed a lifetime ago.

"Still nervous?" Raoul asked, though it was an unnecessary question; Christine was clutching her fan tight enough to snap the tortoiseshell.

"A little...It's just…" A crease appeared between her brows. "I know I shouldn't care, but _knowing_ we're going to be watched…" She looked out the carriage window, her gaze drifting across the looming opera house. "Every expression scrutinized, every word judged..."

Raoul took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Just pretend no one else is there. Before you know it, you'll be so absorbed you won't even notice."

It took an incredible amount of focus to maintain his balance as he led her up the stone steps. His head spun and his legs wobbled as if he'd put away a half a bottle of brandy, despite not having had so much as a drop.

 _My god_ , he thought - if even a simple trip to the opera had this effect, it certainly didn't bode well for how he would handle the... _meetings_ , were she to actually end up agreeing to his plan.

It had taken much longer to get to this point than he would have liked, but blurting it out over breakfast would never do; finesse was required. There had to be careful planning, gentle ingratiation, and, of course, some testing of the waters. Out of social obligation, they'd been to plenty of theatrical performances over the years, at every opera house in Paris...except for one. Her reaction to his suggestion of a night at _THE_ opera could be used as a gauge of her receptiveness to a subsequent suggestion involving the man who was so intimately connected with it. Or so he hoped. That first hurdle had been cleared: there was no horror, no furious disbelief, only a few moments of stunned, quiet contemplation, followed by shy acceptance. He couldn't have asked for better.

Assuming tonight went well and he'd assured himself of a decent chance of success, tomorrow he would sit her down and lay out his plan to start their family, presenting it as rationally and businesslike as if he were proposing they invest some money in a speculative venture. That's all it was, after all: a business arrangement, of sorts.

As they made their way to the velvet-lined box overlooking the stage, already aglow with flickering gas lights, he saw her face shining with a radiance he hadn't seen in years, and increasingly, he felt his chances were looking good...quite good indeed. Then the music began and she was enraptured. Only a handful of patrons stared and whispered, but Christine gave no indication that she even noticed. As the evening wore on, she leaned close to him, very close, and slipped her hand into his, the sweet warmth of it enough to sustain him through another week or two of sleeping alone, at least.

Then, on the drive home, she pressed her cheek to his shoulder, and Raoul's heart thumped with the certainty that he really _would_ be able to fix everything, after all.

…

He'd prepared himself for the spell to be broken the moment they stepped back into their home, chilled by the brisk autumn night and filled with nothing but echoes — so unlike the place they'd just left, vibrant and alive with music and warmed by the heat of so many bodies. So he wasn't surprised when Christine turned to him and announced that she was heading to bed. He responded with his standard acknowledgement of weary resignation, and turned his thoughts to resisting the siren call of the spirits waiting for him on the sideboard in his study. It wasn't until the second time she asked if he would come to bed that he realized his ears were _not_ playing tricks on him.

Honestly, even then Raoul couldn't quite believe he'd heard her right, but he sure as hell wasn't going to wait around to see if she'd ask a third time.

…

Tonight wasn't the first time that Raoul had underestimated the power that music had over Christine, but it _was_ the first time that its effect had such a pleasing result.

Their reunion had been frenzied and desperate, and over much sooner than usual — though in his defense, it had been a while. Afterward, he held her on his chest and waited for his racing heartbeat to slow before allowing himself to speak one of the multitude of soppy sentiments which bubbled in his breast.

"I've missed you," he said, finally.

They'd left the table lamp burning in their haste, and its amber glow illuminated Christine's upturned face. Her brows pulled together in an apologetic frown. "I know...I'm sorry," she said quietly. She drew in a breath. "Raoul, I know I should explain, but...I'm just not sure I'm ready."

Raoul's heart fluttered in his throat. Such openness after long weeks of silence was unexpected, but even _more_ unexpected was the sudden realization that he didn't actually _want_ that openness, not now. Assuming the worst and being assured of it were two very different things, and the distinction had never been so clear. He swallowed down his rising panic. "Please, Christine," he said, only a touch too quickly, "you don't need to say a thing. I don't need to know." She smiled gratefully and settled back onto his chest. He held her close. "Whatever has been going on, it doesn't matter," he murmured into her hair, the curls like silk against his lips. Syrupy warmth pulsed through his veins, flowing into his limbs and making them heavy. He stroked her back with a languid hand, love-drunk and near-delirious with optimism. "All that matters is the future," he said, and hugged her to him tight.

The stiffening of her body was just slight enough that he could tell himself he was imagining it, if he wanted to.

Oh, did he ever want to.

Raoul squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath. Yes...he _could_ convince himself it was nothing. _He_ _could_ let the moment pass, and simply enjoy the feeling of her skin pressed against his. He _definitely_ _wouldn't_ think about the fact that she was _almost certainly_ _doubting his place in her future at this very moment—_ Too late _._ The air left his lungs like he'd been kicked in the gut.

Both husband and wife lay very still, the top of her head tucked just beneath his chin, his arm a dead weight over her ribs. The air between them was charged with expectant silence.

Raoul's stomach began to contract into a queasy knot, like he was teetering high upon a precipice, peering down at an unfathomable drop. He'd truly had every intention to stick to his plan for a rational, well-reasoned proposal — or, at the very least, to not have to make his case while completely naked, only minutes after what had not been his ah, finest performance. But before he knew it, his mouth was moving and, God help him, he could not stop it.

"Christine, do you still want a baby?" The quavering words were not at all the ones he'd planned.

The silence which followed in the question's wake stretched on long enough that he began to worry — or was it hope? — that she hadn't heard him. When she finally spoke, her voice was strained and raw, like it had clawed its way out of her throat. "Please Raoul, don't ask me that. It's not a matter of what I want."

Raoul winced, turning his face toward the shadows beyond the bed. He'd known there was very little chance that she would come back with a firm and decisive _No_ , but even the dreaded _Yes_ would have been better than this non-answer, spoken with such guilt-inducing anguish that he couldn't even look at her. He took a deep breath, set his jaw. "No," he said, pronouncing each word with his most resolute inflection, in an effort to convince himself as much as her. "It's all that matters. If that's what you want, then you should have it."

"Raoul…" she began, trailing off into a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "That's just not how life works." She spoke gently, but with a quiet weariness which only deepened his guilt. "You forget, I wasn't born into this privilege. I've experienced loss before. I know it hurts, and it's hard, but sometimes…" She sighed. "Sometimes you don't have a choice."

"But…" he whispered, his heart thudding beneath her cheek, "you _do_ have a choice."

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, frowning.

Raoul swallowed hard, but his dry mouth was no help for his dry throat, and his words came out like gravel. "If not for me…"

"No, Raoul- "

"It's true — we both know it," he insisted.

She fell quiet, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He pushed himself up so their faces were level. In the flickering lamplight he couldn't tell if it was tears he saw shining in her eyes, or only a trick of the light. "I won't be the thing that keeps you from what you want," he said, more steadily than he'd expected. "If I can't give you a baby, then..."

He pulled in a breath through his nose, said one last prayer to God that he wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of his life, and forced out the fateful words in a quick exhale.

"...then maybe it should be someone else."

Christine blinked at him once, twice. Her lips parted, breathless. "Are you saying I should leave you?"

"No." He locked his eyes on hers, willing her to see straight into his soul...to comprehend the boundless limits of his devotion. "No, I'm not."

Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

He took her free hand and clasped it between his clammy palms. The diamond ring he'd placed on her finger years ago pressed painfully into the spot where the flesh was most tender, but he held tight. "Christine, I love you, and I will always love you, no matter what," he said, the words spilling from him in an unstoppable stream. "And I would love any child...just as if it were mine. You know I would."

Raoul watched as his wife's eyes slowly widened with understanding.

She let out a soft gasp.

"Oh my God."

She jerked her hand away, holding it to her chest like it had been scalded.

" _Oh my God!_ "

As Raoul's useless lips tried to find the right words, Christine threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed, snatching up her dressing gown from a nearby armchair. "This is because of the drinking, isn't it?" she demanded, wrapping the gown around her and tugging the belt into an untidy bow. "You're not yourself, you haven't been for weeks!" She wrung her hands, pacing the length of her vanity. "This is my fault, I knew I should have said something, but I-"

"No, no — see? I'm completely sober!" Raoul cried, shuffling over to the edge of the bed. A shift in her posture told him he'd better stay put, and he sat back, raising a placating palm. "I've been overdoing it a little, I admit, but that's all in the past now." He tried an apologetic smile, but she appeared unmoved. "Look, I know that giving my blessing for you to ah, engage in... _amorous congress_ with someone else is a little...unconventional," he continued over her tart laugh of disbelief, "but this isn't some silly, spur of the moment idea. I've spent night after night thinking about it!"

She raised her brows. "Oh, _have_ you?" she replied archly.

"Not like that!" he said, cringing away from her withering look of disgust. "I just meant that I've given it a great deal of thought, and I really think this could be the solution to all our problems. If it works, then we—" He swallowed hard, trying to loosen his suddenly tight throat; he needed to sound emphatic, not pathetic. "—then we'd have everything we've ever wanted, and things can go back to how they were between us, only better! We could be _happy_ again," he finished, his voice breaking over the final words.

Christine took a step back and collapsed onto her vanity stool. She touched her fingertips to her lips. "Oh Raoul...I knew things weren't right with us, but I didn't think they were this bad." Her voice was sad, subdued, and she looked at him with such hurt in her eyes that Raoul was struck with the sickening feeling that he'd been very, very wrong about her.

The table lamp sputtered — the oil was nearly out.

Shadows flickered across Christine's pale, drawn face. It would take no more than five or six steps to reach his wife, if only he'd go to her.

"How could you want me to..." She shook her head as if she couldn't believe the words leaving her mouth. "—to... _be_ _with_ another man?"

Raoul flinched.

_...be with another man..._

So much had happened since the day he'd learned the terrible truth amongst his mother's hot-house roses. Now, the buzzing thoughts which had filled his head every minute since — each a different consideration to manage in his quest to keep Christine at any cost — fell silent, and all that was left was the memory of her empty chair, her stammered excuses, and his mother's smug satisfaction as she described the handsome stranger — _another man_ — spotted with his cherished wife.

How could _HE_ want that _?_ Raoul had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud.

Blazing words burnt his lips and he spat them at her before he could stop himself. "What, you don't think you could?"

Christine's mouth fell open in shock, or at least the approximation of it. "I can't believe you'd ask me something like that!" She was indignant, but, Raoul noted with grim satisfaction, her cheeks were burning.

She hadn't actually answered, either. In fact, Raoul now realized, nothing she'd said tonight had been a clear denial of unfaithfulness. The taste of vindication was sour on his tongue.

And yet...it changed nothing.

His head began to fill again with the familiar drone of his swarming thoughts. Maybe he was right. But the truth was that whether her cheeks burned with shame, or with resentment, or with something else entirely — whether she'd only met with that man for some innocent reason, or whether there had been more — none of that mattered, none of it made him want to clutch her to him any less. No, Raoul's love for his wife was truly unconditional. He couldn't let himself sabotage his efforts over something so inconsequential as jealousy, not when he'd come this far.

He held his hands to his face, exhaled heavily. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"No?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Tell me you didn't mean _any_ of it."

Raoul dropped his hands to his lap and held his head high. "I can't. I won't."

"Then I don't know what to say to you!" Christine sprang up from the stool, then whirled around and dropped to her knees. She stretched a hand into the darkened space beneath the vanity and pulled it back clutching her little satin slipper.

That was his cue; letting her escape without an answer was not an option. Raoul clambered out of the bed and shuffled into his discarded trousers. "Just say you'll consider it! It's not such an outlandish idea, really." He closed the space between them, shrugging on his rumpled shirt. "It wouldn't mean anything, it's just a means to an end. And no one else would ever have to know!"

Both slippers now in hand, Christine straightened up and gave him one last incredulous look. "Goodnight, Raoul," she said firmly.

And then she was spinning away from him, her gauzy white dressing gown floating behind her like a ghost's trailing shroud. "Wait!" He lunged after her and grasped her wrist, more forcefully than he'd intended.

She turned back with a gasp. "Have you gone mad?"

He tightened his grip as her eyes flew wide. "I don't know — maybe I have!" His voice was ragged, wild. "All I know is that I can't lose you!"

He released her wrist and took a stumbling step backward, blinking as if he'd stepped into a sudden flood of brilliant sunlight. "Christine, I'm so sorry…" he whispered, with what felt like the last breath of air left in his lungs.

He reached out a hand toward her.

She took a quick step back.

For a moment she just looked at him, her expression again unreadable, only now it wasn't the familiar stony blankness which left him floundering, it was the complete opposite: an immeasurable swirl of emotions, rapidly churning. Recognizable fragments - _anger, hurt, disbelief, despair -_ abruptly surfacing and then sinking just as quickly. Completely unfathomable.

Raoul felt like he was about to be sick.

Finally, Christine shut her eyes. "I need a moment, please," she said quietly.

Raoul nodded dumbly, scrubbed a hand over his face, and wandered out of the room in a daze, wondering how in the hell he'd managed to mess things up this badly.

…

He hadn't wanted to bother with a fire, but now the cold was beginning to seep deep into his bones.

Just across the study waited an easy solution: a bottle of liquid heat, ready to spread its warmth from head to toe, conveniently numbing the aching in his chest along the way.

It would be easier than feeling.

Raoul found himself standing in front of the tray of golden elixirs in their crystal bottles, without any memory of how he'd gotten there.

Just one drink, maybe two, and the wait would be easier. He ran a thumb around the rim of an awaiting glass.

Easier, yes...but nothing worth anything in life was easy.

And _nothing_ was worth more than Christine.

He gathered up the decanters in his arms and carefully made his way to the large potted palm which stood near the window. Two full months of a bank clerk's salary-worth of spirits soaked the soil, as Raoul emptied bottle after bottle until not a drop was left. He'd catch hell from the housekeeper, no doubt, but tonight he had no desire to be spotted with an armful of alcohol on his way to a sink.

Raoul rummaged in the old armoire, a hulking, garish thing made of burled walnut and brass knobs polished smooth by the touch of almost a hundred years of de Chagny hands. From its recesses, beneath a pile of blankets of embroidered Oriental silk, of rich velvet and Irish lace, he pulled out a quilt. It was thin and worn, and sewn from faded squares of soft, simple cotton. Christine's — one of only a handful of things left from her life in Sweden.

It didn't quite eliminate the bitter chill he felt, but it would be enough, for now.

For now, he could do nothing but wait.

* * *

_Big thanks this chapter to N-N for the awesome beta work. One day I'll learn when to end a chapter, but for now, there's you. xoxo_

_Tumblr users - I have set up shop over there! For now, I've mostly been reblogging gifs and art that have inspired me, but with plans to share pictures of the places and such that I use for reference as well as little sneak peeks and the like. Check it out! @flora-gray_

_The next chapter will be shorter and be up within a few weeks at most. For now, if you're a Kay fan and haven't read it yet, I have short little thing published here for the "missing" chapters, Till Death. Baby's first fanfic. :D_

_I have been lagging with replying to messages and reviews because almost all my spare computer time is spent on writing, but I always eventually do, and each one has been a treasure to me. :)_

_Thank you for reading!_


	12. No Second Thoughts

**No Second Thoughts**

If given the chance to redo just one thing from tonight, Raoul had decided, he never would have let go of Christine's wrist. Stopping her from fleeing the room had been a good start, but he lacked follow-through. Rather, he should have pulled her to him, should have held her tightly and kissed her deeply — _that_ would have been a demonstration of the passionate determination expected of a hero. It's what the Raoul of a few years past would have done, not run from his wife like a chastened dog, slinking away with its tail tucked between its legs. How could he possibly inspire confidence acting like such an unmanly coward?

It was yet another way he'd botched this whole thing; he added it to the list he'd been keeping in his head. What was he at now, thirteen? Fourteen? He'd easily cleared a dozen, that was for certain.

Raoul pulled the quilt up around his shoulders. The temperature had continued to drop, but waking a servant to start a fire seemed like just another humiliation he couldn't stomach.

There really wasn't any excuse for not turning on the lights, though.

The moon was a thin slash of silver in the sky, framed within a massive window hung with heavy velvet curtains. It gave off just enough light to see, but rendered the richly colored wood paneling and jewel-toned rows of books in bleak gray tones. It felt fitting.

The "moment" Christine had requested had become an hour. Raoul shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Would this end up being cataloged as number fifteen on the list of his failings? An entire night sitting alone in a cold, dark room, waiting on someone who had no intention of joining him? He supposed only time would tell, because even so much as imagining his hand poised to knock on the bedroom door made Raoul's palms sweat.

God, he really was pathetic, wasn't he?

He was halfway to convincing himself that stretching out for a quick nap would _not_ mean he was giving up, when there was a sudden flare of light, glowing blood-red through his closed lids.

Thankfully, waiting around like a pitiful fool wouldn't be making it onto the list after all.

Blinking spots from his eyes, he found Christine standing near the doorway across the room, haloed by the golden light of a gas lamp. Her eyes were rimmed in red, her arms hugged tight around her ribs. Small white teeth pressed into her bottom lip.

Raoul leapt to his feet, landing a little unsteadily after so long on the sofa.

Christine's eyes flicked over to the sideboard, taking in the empty bottles and untouched glasses. She looked back at him, her brows knitted together in confusion.

"I, ah, watered the plant," Raoul confessed, with a sheepish half-smile. "Not a drop for me, though. I promise."

Her face relaxed, with enough of a smile on her lips to encourage Raoul to take the opportunity to launch right in. He took a breath and spread his hands. "Christine, I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I realize now how indecent the whole idea might seem, and I truly didn't mean to imply that I think you of easy virtue." The words came easily now; he'd had time to think, and this time, he would get them right. He had to. "And, more importantly," he continued, "I'd never want to make you feel that I've ever doubted you." That was a bit of a misrepresentation, but it wasn't technically untrue; whatever doubts he might have, he certainly hadn't wanted her to be aware that he harbored them.

She hesitated a moment, chewing her bottom lip. Then, with a soft sigh, she crossed the room to where he stood and slipped her hands into his. Raoul held them tight, an anchor to keep him moored despite the swelling waves of dread threatening to sweep him away.

"It's all right," she said, her voice sweetly subdued. "I understand. I know your heart was in the right place." She sighed again and settled down on the sofa; he followed, their hands still clasped between them. A memory surfaced, tender as a bruise, of standing before one another, hands interlaced, as they made their marriage vows — swearing eternal love and unbending fidelity. Nausea turned Raoul's stomach, and he gripped his wife's hands tighter still.

"And _I'm_ sorry, too," she added. Her eyes were on his, and truly, they were filled with sorrow. "This has been so hard on us both. We had our lives planned out. I thought I was meant to be a mother, and now…" She glanced away and Raoul was left breathless from a near-fatal stab of guilt, a fine-pointed dagger slid swifty between his ribs. Her hands tensed. "I've not handled this well, I know. And I admit, I've been…lost...and I've been trying so hard to find my way..." She trailed off, the words trembling on her lips, and Raoul's heart thudded to a stop. Her eyes flew back up to his, pleading. "But I swear, I've never had any intention of leaving you." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Is that what this is all about?"

Raoul sat back, feeling almost punch-drunk. His thoughts were racing, and he couldn't make any sense of them. She seemed so genuine. When she'd looked him in the eyes and declared that she wouldn't leave him, his heart had swelled with complete conviction, yet her words still did not deny what he knew to be true: she _had_ been up to something with another man. Raoul had provided her with everything she could ever want, except for this one thing, so what other possible reason could she have to meet with a man, if not to find a replacement who could provide it?

What did it all mean? How could he untangle this mess?

Asking her directly would be a start.

Raoul exhaled sharply, covering the laugh which had leapt into his throat. He was too far gone and in much too deep now, even if it were possible that he could find the nerve to ask. And, he reminded himself again, what did it matter? At the heart of it was this: Christine was not happy and it was his fault.

He couldn't help that. But he could make things right.

He fixed his eyes on hers. "Christine, do you want to have a baby?" he asked again, and this time it was no longer a question, but a gentle invitation to answer honestly.

Silent tears slid down her cheeks, giving him the answer before she spoke it. "I do, but—"

"Then _that_ is what this is all about," he said, placing firm hands on her shoulders to steady them both. "I couldn't live with myself knowing that I was the cause of your regret, or that you resented me. You told me the same thing, I know you must understand."

"But Raoul, I—"

"I mean it," he spoke over her quickly; he wouldn't give her the opportunity to attempt to deny it for his sake. "And even if you think it's true now, you can't know how you'll feel in a few years. Or even farther down the line, when it would be too late." He squeezed her shoulders. "I want you to have everything you want — nothing unfulfilled, nothing to regret."

Christine's hands went to her lap, her fingers twisting at the sash of her dressing gown, grasping and pulling until Raoul thought for sure the fine fabric might tear. Beneath a deeply creased brow, her eyes darted back and forth, distant, yet thoughtful, as if examining a picture only she could see.

A full minute passed before she spoke, her voice hushed and undeniably hurting. "And what do you want?" she asked, not meeting his eyes.

"All I want is for us to be together, forever. To be a family, like we'd always dreamed." Raoul brought his hand up to cup her cheek, hot and damp with tears, and she nestled into the cradle of his palm. "Remember?"

She nodded, just slightly.

Raoul swallowed. "Then, if we're to stay together...how else could we have a child?" He let his fingers slide down her cheek in a soothing stroke.

Christine jerked away, turning her back to him and covering her eyes with her hands. "Oh, I don't know, Raoul…" she moaned. "It just seems so _wrong_! And there are so many ways it could go badly."

There wasn't really any way for Raoul to respond — she wasn't wrong — so instead he reached out to lay a comforting hand on her back. At his touch, she dropped her hands and twisted around to face him, her face a mask of incredulity. "You really think you'd be able to look at me the same way after such a thing? That you'd accept and raise another man's child as your own? You wouldn't feel jealous? You wouldn't feel resentful?" she asked, and she might have made some good points, but all Raoul could hear was that her words were not an outright refusal. His pulse began to race.

Raoul took her hand again, pressing it to his heart, urging her to feel how its every beat was for her and her alone.

"Could you doubt me?"

Judging by the look she gave him, she certainly could.

Raoul softened his eyes. He softened his voice. "If you truly don't think this is something you could do, I understand completely. We can forget I ever said anything. But," he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss against her knuckles, "I want you to know that I've meant every word."

Christine pulled her hand from his grip, leaving Raoul's fingers grasping at the air. She stood, squinting down at him, arms crossed. "You _honestly_ believe we could make it through this," she said, and a little thrill of victory ran through Raoul as he realized that, despite her acid tone, she wasn't asking. She was _listening_. The ice he was traversing was thin, but finally, there was at least _some_ ice, instead of only an endless expanse of murky water, cold enough to paralyze. He nodded, afraid to chance ruining the small gain by saying the wrong thing.

She quirked an eyebrow. "You mean for me to be intimate with another man, repeatedly, and you have no worries at all that feelings might develop?"

"Well..." Raoul hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. He was making progress, but he was still only halfway there. He supposed it was time to take a few tentative steps to test out the strength of the newly-formed support beneath his feet, fragile and slick though it was. He sat up a little straighter. "That's why it's important to choose that man very carefully."

Christine tilted her head, regarding him through narrowed eyes.

Raoul took another step, praying that the brittle ice would support the weight of a few gently-leading suggestions — ones he'd spent the last few nights committing to memory.

"There's so much to consider," he began, "but I think the most important thing is that it be someone we could trust to keep this secret, no matter what. This child would stand to inherit a title, a fortune, and a respected family name, so it's imperative that this person understands the need for absolute discretion." He paused to take a quick breath. "And, of course, paramount to any lineage considerations is that your good name is preserved, and that there would be no worry that we would ever face the embarrassment of any...intimate details being shared."

He stopped to give Christine time to process, watching her face closely. So far, so good: her eyes were still narrowed, but she hadn't objected.

Time to sharpen simple suggestion into pointed insinuation.

"Which means…" Suddenly Raoul's nerve began to waver. He shifted his eyes to the door, hopeful that it would appear he was simply concerned about any possible interruptions. "It would need to be someone who wants what's best for _you_...who respects you and cares about you...as much as I do."

At the edge of his vision, Raoul could sense Christine go still. Very still.

The ice had now thinned to a razor's edge. Raoul touched down an exploratory toe, trying to ignore the creaking and groaning of the splintering ground beneath his feet. "Someone who would rather die than hurt you or betray you." He swallowed, and risked a glance at her face.

The utter blankness he saw there was unexpected...and deeply unnerving. Raoul shifted in his seat.

"Maybe…" He inhaled, filling his lungs in preparation for a final sprint to shore. "Maybe someone who has _already_ proven that they would put what's best for you before any feelings of their own?" he finished, his voice lilting upwards, gently leading her toward the only possible conclusion.

"Raoul," Christine said, quietly, her tone as expressionless as her face. "Why did we go to the opera tonight?"

"I won't lie to you," he said, spacing his words carefully. Hammering heart be damned, he would remain calm and confident through this; it would be the only way to convince her to see reason. "Yes, I did have an ulterior motive." Raoul could see the muscles in Christine's jaw tighten. He extended a reassuring hand, as if he were approaching a stray dog, uncertain of whether it would roll over or draw blood. "I needed to see what sort of feelings might be stirred up. I had to know if it was all still too traumatic, or if maybe there might still be some...positive feelings there. Which I would say was the case, no?" He raised his eyebrows slightly.

A red flush bloomed across her cheeks, but her expression remained frustratingly unchanged.

Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes, a stick of dynamite waiting for its fuse to be lit. "Tell me who you're referring to. I need to hear you say it."

Raoul sat forward, gripping the edge of the sofa cushion for support, bracing for impact. "Ah…"

He struck the match, let it flame.

"... _Him_."

For a moment, there was only silence between them while the fuse sparked and hissed.

The explosion was expected — inevitable, really — but that didn't make it any less awful to experience. The force with which Christine's two little hands connected with his shoulders, sending him reeling back to bounce off the backrest of the sofa, was quite a surprise. He'd anticipated some push-back, but didn't think it would come in a literal sense. She stepped back and glared down at him with blazing eyes. "You _HAVE_ gone mad!"

"I have not," Raoul replied as evenly as possibly, struggling to right himself. "If you'll just think it over a bit, you'll see he's actually a perfect candidate."

" _HOW_?" she shrieked, loud enough that she appeared to startle even herself. She dropped her voice to a furious whisper. "Raoul, _he kidnapped me_! He tried to force me to marry him by threatening to _kill_ _you_!" She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. "Have you forgotten all that?"

"I most certainly haven't," Raoul said, and for a moment he felt the ghostly sting of rope around his neck. He shook his head to fling away the inconvenient memory. "But I _also_ remember that he did the right thing in the end." He stood and Christine skittered away, shielding herself behind Raoul's leather armchair, her eyes flashing a warning. He had a feeling these initial protestations might be more reflexive than anything; all he needed for now was to give her time and space to calm down. He spread his palms to indicate that he would keep his distance. "Weren't you the one telling me all about how he's changed? About his capacity for good?" Raoul could see that the corner of her mouth trembled, just slightly. "Don't you believe that?"

"No! I mean, I think so... I don't know!" she cried, and somehow she made it sound like an accusation. She looked down at her hands, braced on the back of the armchair; they were clutching the smooth, burnished leather hard enough that they would almost certainly leave marks. "It's all so complicated," she said, much more softly. She looked up, and Raoul could see that tears had begun to well up in her eyes.

A sudden shiver worked its way up his spine, shuddering into his shoulders as a quickly-suppressed convulsion. It caught him off guard, leaving him flustered, until — of course! — he realized he'd forgotten all about how uncomfortably cold he'd been in the unheated room. His eyes went to his wife, concerned for her comfort, but if she was affected by the chill, there was no indication.

Raoul rubbed his hands up and down his arms, letting the friction generate some warmth in his bones. He used the pause to assess the situation.

So far, this wasn't actually going too poorly.

Of course she would have some concerns; he'd had them himself. In fact, he'd counted on it. He'd come prepared with an answer to every objection, knowing that she would only need a gentle hand to steer her towards reason. The intensity of her reaction, however, was far beyond what he'd prepared for.

He shook his head. "Honestly, I'm a little surprised that you're _this_ opposed. I thought he might be who you'd choose yourself."

Christine's eyes widened. "Don't you dare put this on me!" she hissed, stabbing a finger at him. "I showed... _empathy_ for him, and you- you took that to mean I want to do _that_ with him?"

"Well, you kissed him," Raoul said matter-of-factly.

"I did that so he'd let you go!" This time, the blush reached her collarbone.

Something twisted deep within Raoul's chest. "The first time, perhaps." He could taste bitterness coating his lips as the words tumbled out. "What, exactly, was the point of that second kiss?"

Christine's mouth fell open.

If she was shocked, she was not alone: Raoul hadn't known that question was within him until the words were coming out of his mouth.

_Though...that wasn't exactly true, was it?_

At one point, very early on, the thought had been there, but between her frequent floods of tears over the event and her clear and unwavering demonstration of love for him, Raoul had decided it wasn't of any real concern, and he'd banished the unspoken question from his mind. Or at least, he told himself he had. In reality, he was now forced to admit, he'd pushed it down, down, down, as deep as it could go, never giving it the light it would need to grow and flower into something real. Vaguely, he wondered what other seeds might be down there, waiting for their chance to germinate. He hoped he'd never find out.

"Raoul," Christine snapped, dragging him back to the present, "you will not force me to defend the things I did to save your life." Her voice shook with emotion, but her blush had only continued its journey down her chest; almost all of her uncovered skin was a feverish red.

There was another twist in his chest — Raoul could feel something unfurling, trying to reach for the light. Perhaps the wise thing would be to let any doubts surface, to make sure he was going into this with open eyes and no second thoughts...but the wise thing and the right thing weren't always the same, were they?

Had it been wise to descend into an unfamiliar, pitch-black labyrinth in an attempt to single-handedly rescue his beloved from a man who'd wanted him dead, without either a lantern or a weapon with which to defend himself? Maybe not, but it was what was right, and it went—- well, it all worked out in the end, anyway.

Raoul clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, willing the tender, toxic shoot to wither and die.

When the wriggling in his chest had ceased, he unclenched his jaw and put on an expression of earnest remorse. "I'm sorry, Christine," he sighed. "I can't get anything right. I only meant that I'd thought you might be more comfortable with someone you already had...some level of rapport with."

She scoffed, but the daggers she'd been staring at him had dulled, Raoul noted with undisguised relief; they no longer appeared so lethal. He pressed on.

"And I truly think that for all his flaws — of which, yes, I know there are many — we couldn't find someone who we could trust more to keep this confidential or to treat you with such...reverence. Don't you agree?"

For once, her silence was exactly the response he'd hoped for.

Raoul watched Christine closely. Her mouth, which had been pressed into a firm line, began to soften; her eyes lost their hard-edged gleam. Finally, her hands relaxed their grip on the armchair's tufted back and her shoulders slumped. "What does it matter anyway?" she asked, shaking her head. "We have no idea what's happened to him." She turned and walked the few steps to the window, touching her fingertips to the dark glass. Her face had lost its flush, and now, bathed in the faint glow of moonlight, it was unearthly pale. "I know this sounds silly, and I can't explain it, but I think— _I feel_ like he's still alive." She let her forehead fall forward to rest against the window, eyes shut.

With a brief — but surprisingly strong — squeeze of his heart, Raoul suddenly realized that Christine must be terribly tired; it was closer to dawn than to sunset by now, and without a doubt the conversation had been quite draining.

"But...it's been so long, and there's been no sign of him. He's never—-" Her voice wavered and trailed off, strained with exhaustion. Abruptly, she stepped back with a huff, shaking her head, presumably to revive herself. "He must be in some far off place. There'd be no way to find him," she added decisively. She looked back at Raoul, her expression resigned and undeniably...tired. He needed to wrap this up, and quickly.

Raoul took a careful step toward his wife. "About that…"

Christine froze, her eyes snapped open wide and wary, waiting.

"Please believe that I did this out of love and consideration for you," Raoul said slowly, closing the distance between them one hesitant step at a time. This was the final bit of surprise for the evening, and whether she'd want to fall into his arms or slap him, either way, he wanted to be right there for her. "I thought it best that I have an idea of where he was — just in case — so I found a way to keep track of him." Raoul paused; he was within an arm's reach of her now. "And I can confirm that he's neither dead, nor in a particularly far off place."

Christine's mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but all that came out was a small, sharp exhale.

"The information wasn't all bad," Raoul went on, "but it turned out that he knew what I was doing, and was playing me from the start." Not for the first time, he silently cursed that damned Giry woman; still, he had to admire a woman who was shrewd enough to use such a situation to her advantage. "Oh, the _gloating_..." Raoul made a disgusted sound in his throat. "I do believe you're right about him being a different person now, but _that_ aspect of his personality is still intact," he added bitterly.

"You've _seen_ him?" Christine asked, her voice little more than a breath. "When?"

"Well...yes." Raoul shifted his feet on the thin rug. "Not long ago. I thought I should talk it out with him first, get a feeling for things?"

"' _A feeling for things_?' You— I can't _believe_ you _!_ " If Raoul thought he'd seen shock on his wife's face earlier tonight, it was nothing compared to what he saw now. He ducked backwards, suddenly not so keen to be slapped after all. Mercifully, though, it seemed his transgression was forgotten in the face of more pressing questions.

"He's here? In Paris?" she demanded.

"Not currently." Raoul gave a little shrug. "He comes and goes."

He didn't notice that Christine had begun to wobble until she flung out an arm to steady herself against the chair. He rushed forward, taking her by the elbow and guiding her to sit.

"Darling, we really should get you to bed, you're ready to fall asleep on your feet!" Raoul said, kneeling beside her.

She nodded absently. "How— how is he? Is he...well?" Her forehead was wrinkled in confusion, as if she wasn't sure what she was asking.

"He seemed...fine, I suppose?" Raoul answered.

Christine's eyes drifted from his, gazing, unfocused, at some point more distant than Raoul could see. He covered her hand with his; it felt as cool and motionless as if it were carved from marble. He gave it a squeeze. "You know, you could ask him yourself."

She blinked hard, looking around at Raoul like she'd just realized he was there. "He said he would do this?" she asked, and if there was an emotion to be read in her tone, Raoul could not sense it in the least.

"So long as you agreed," he replied — he figured that was close enough to the truth. He raised his eyebrows hopefully. "So...does this mean you'll think about it?"

Raoul hadn't expected her to reply right away, and he certainly didn't want to rush her, but a minute or two should have been long enough to at least give _some_ indication one way or another. The minutes kept ticking by, though, as Raoul shifted on knees that were quickly becoming rather uncomfortable. Still Christine stared down at her lap, a little crease between her brows.

"All right," she said, finally.

"Really?" A fizzing rush filled Raoul's head and chest, like he'd just knocked back an entire glass of brandy in one go. He wanted to shout to the heavens — _Oh, thank you God!_ — and he nearly did before he bit his tongue. Countless hours of planning and plotting, of isolation and humiliation — it had all paid off. "You'll think about it?" he asked again, in desperate, almost delirious need of confirmation.

"No," Christine shook her head. "I mean let's do it."

"You...what?" Raoul could feel his face go slack. He tried to speak but found he had no air left in his lungs; he sucked in a deep breath. "You'll do this? Truly?" His mouth was trembling, inching its way into a wide, stunned grin.

Christine reached out her hand to stroke Raoul's cheek, giving him a small half-smile that softened her eyes. "Yes, Raoul. Now, can we please go back to bed? I really am quite tired."

Raoul was on his feet immediately. "Certainly, my love! Just give me a minute or two, and I'll join you straightaway." He helped her to her feet and then he pulled her to him, held her tightly and kissed her deeply.

Just like the hero he was.

**…**

As soon as Christine had left the room, Raoul had set to work. He dashed over to his desk and withdrew paper and an envelope. He scratched out a message that he would hand-deliver himself to Madame Giry, first thing in the morning:

_**She agrees. Meet to discuss?** _

He would ask Giry to forward it to Erik, after they'd had a few words about where, exactly, her allegiances lie...and whether tripling what Erik was paying might have any bearing on that answer.

As Raoul slipped into bed — _his bed!_ — with his wife — _at her request!_ — he wondered if he'd be able to sleep a wink tonight between the giddy fluttering of his heart and the stupid smile he couldn't stop from twitching on his face. He needn't have worried; he was weightless now that he'd been freed from the last of his secrets, drifting on a cloud of optimism, rosy pink and intoxicating. He gazed down the length of the now clear-cut path he'd worked so hard to create and could finally, _finally_ see a golden light breaking on the horizon. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into sleep.

He enjoyed approximately ninety seconds of bliss before his eyes flew open, a thick, cold lump of dread sliding into his stomach.

_Wait a minute…_

His heart drummed an ominous, vaguely familiar rhythm.

_Why did she agree so quickly_?

* * *

_OH IT'S ON, BABY._

_Hi hi! Everyone good? Though I do have a very full plate in my real life, I'm also realllllllly starting to miss, you know, everyday human interaction, but this has helped to fill the void. I've loved each and every message and comment and review from you all, thank you so much!_

_And as usual, thank you, readers, for staying with this over the months/years! I'm writing at every opportunity I have (which isn't a lot), so you can continue to expect 1-2 chapters a month. Already on my way with the next two chapters, which will be a lot of fun. I think we're like ¼-⅓ of the way through, and there are plenty of twisty-turns on their way. Up next: time to hash out some logistics with our two favorite delusional men._

_Again, eternal thanks to DW for helping me out so much on this, and helping me finally figure out how I want to end this thing! You're the absolute best._

_xo Flora_


	13. A Deal with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild language -- Raoul is PEEVED.

**A Deal with the Devil**

As dusk blanketed the city of Brussels, smothering the last slanting rays of bronzed afternoon sun, a light winked on in the distance, and then another: it was almost time. From a second story window overlooking a wide, tree-lined boulevard, Raoul watched as the lamp-lighter worked his way down the street, pausing to bring each lamp to life with a touch of a pole, blazing a trail to tonight's dreaded destination. Raoul stubbed out his cigarette in the half-full ashtray and pushed away his uneaten dinner. A few bites of bread would help soothe his sour stomach, but the one mouthful he'd attempted had stuck in his dry throat like a stone.

Ah well, at least nothing in his stomach meant nothing to potentially throw up.

It had taken nearly two weeks to come to an agreement on the where and when of this meeting, and while he couldn't prove it, Raoul couldn't shake the feeling that Erik had been unnecessarily difficult. In the end, Raoul had let him have his way. Tonight, he would just have to put his foot down and make it quite clear that Erik would not be the one calling the shots. He folded a stack of papers neatly in half and tucked them into the inside pocket of his overcoat. The packet felt like a living thing, pulsing against his chest, sending a wave of nausea into his empty stomach. Raoul hated to have any sort of concrete evidence, but he was making a deal with an uncommonly slippery devil — he couldn't risk any uncertainties.

It's not that Raoul was wavering; in fact, in the days since he'd secured Christine's approval, he'd only grown more positive that his plan was perfect. The initial misgivings he'd had about the swiftness of that approval were soon laid to rest by the ardency and frequency with which she welcomed him back into her arms. It had been like a second honeymoon for them, and Raoul couldn't deny that it gave a boost to his morale and a certain swagger to his step.

And of course, it also helped ease the sting of jealousy. Sharing only feels like a sacrifice if you come to the table starving, after all.

Out on the sidewalk, Raoul gripped the handle of his walking stick and adjusted his black silk topper. The hotel concierge had offered to call a cab, but Raoul had declined, asking instead for directions to the set of cross streets Erik had provided in his last letter, which Raoul had spent the better part of the train ride reading over and over, despite having committed the entire thing to memory some time ago. Erik had assured him the location wasn't far from the hotel; a walk in the cool evening air would be just the thing to settle the seasick churning of his belly.

During sleepless nights, with his wife's head resting sweetly on his chest, his fingers twined through her hair, Raoul had found plenty of time to think, and truly, he had no worries about how it all would turn out in the end. Aside from the wedge which childlessness had placed between them, their marriage had been solid as rock. He and Christine shared not only their love, but an inextricable history, and the deeply-fulfilling life they'd built together. A handful of encounters with an old, ugly man would not threaten that.

It felt shameful to admit, but Erik's ugliness was partly why he'd leapt to Raoul's mind as a potential candidate as readily as he had. Yes, his unparalleled commitment to secrecy and his... _regard_ for Christine were the most important considerations, but what man wouldn't pick someone who held no possible physical attraction, were they forced to choose a lover for their wife? It had been a gamble to assume she could overcome her repulsion, but if she'd been able to kiss that disgusting face, Raoul supposed anything was possible.

Raoul passed a small restaurant. The scent of potatoes and onions frying in oil drifted out the door, turning his unhappy stomach. He paused and fished the silver case from his pocket, withdrawing a cigarette and rolling the slim cylinder between his fingers, feeling the crinkle of the delicate paper which hugged the tobacco. Smoking in public was not something he liked to make a habit of — it seemed not only ungentlemanly, but also gave him the oddest feeling of exposure, as if others could see the feelings which guided his hand to light the match as clearly as if they were written on his face. Still, better _that_ than heaving into a potted plant. Raoul took a long, numbing drag and continued on his way, a puff of smoke trailing behind him.

The thing was, just because he didn't worry about— what would happen, it didn't mean he _relished_ the thought. Despite Christine's initial implication, there was not even the faintest stirrings of a thrill in the thought of his wife in another man's arms. On the contrary, he'd learned the hard way — on more than one occasion — that if he were to let his mind start conjuring images, he'd end up with his last meal lurching up into his throat.

But this was a matter of the ends justifying the means, and so he would just have to put his head down, screw his eyes shut, and run full-speed to that end, doing his absolute best to ignore how absolutely nauseating those means were. A feat easier said than done, particularly tonight.

The street had become blessedly quiet. Though the clink of glasses and the sweet scent of tobacco still carried on the soft breeze, the restaurants and clubs had thinned, and it had been a while since Raoul had seen a shop that wasn't closed for the night. Passing a shuttered bakery with an emerald green awning, he picked up his pace; according to the concierge, the street he was looking for would be coming up at the end of this block.

Reaching the corner, Raoul ground his spent cigarette beneath his heel and scanned the darkened intersection. Erik had instructed him to look for a building covered in scaffolding. Raoul wasn't exactly comfortable breaking into a worksite after hours, but it made sense: it was both private and exactly the _Phantom's_ style.

He almost didn't notice it precisely because it was so conspicuous — not to mention completely _unthinkable_ — but there it was, looming over him in silent judgment: a church, covered in scaffolding. _A church!_ Raoul huffed out a sharp breath. _The nerve of that heathen!_ Well, he wouldn't be telling Christine he'd made arrangements for her to lie with another man in a house of God, that was for certain.

Shaking his head, Raoul checked his pocket watch in the amber glow of a streetlamp. The walk had taken longer than expected — only five minutes remained until they were due to meet. He had hoped to get there early enough to get himself settled, both in body and in mind, so that he could start off on the best possible foot.

That was one small comfort: at least it seemed impossible to start off on a worse foot than last time.

Yes, in hindsight, he had made a few mistakes the last time they'd met. He'd allowed inebriation to stand in for courage, had pleaded and begged and humbled himself, rather than present the offer as what it truly was: the best damn thing to ever happen to that pathetic, sewer-dwelling scoundrel. Tonight, however, Raoul would hold his achingly-sober head up high and set his terms with confidence...if only he could get his hands to stop shaking.

After making sure there were no witnesses to his trespassing, Raoul took off his hat and slipped in through the front door into darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he could see faint light shining up ahead. He followed it, passing into the main hall. It was dark and homely and not at all like the churches he had attended, which were resplendent with heavenly-white marble and adorned with choirs of priceless gilt angels. Dirty dust cloths were draped over the pews, which had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large empty space lit by eerie red light filtering in through stained glass. Raoul's skin crawled.

The location was off-putting, but a quick look around assured him he was there first, thankfully. He turned to sit and wait and try to compose himself...and nearly choked as he almost ran smack into the dark figure standing not two paces from him.

Raoul staggered back, cursing under his breath.

Back-lit by the red-tinged moonlight, Erik appeared made of shadow, shrouded in darkness from head to toe, except for the bone-white gleam of his mask.

"I didn't startle you, did I?" he asked, and though his tone passed for genuine concern, Raoul could feel the smirk snaking into his bones.

Raoul gritted his teeth against the impulse to demand an explanation as to _how in the hell_ he had managed to sneak up on him like that, and instead countered by going on the attack.

"A _church?_ " Raoul sneered, his brows quirked in disdainful reproach. "Really _?_ "

"Oh, is this not an appropriate location to have this discussion?" Erik replied in that insufferably smooth slicked-velvet voice of his. "It hadn't occurred to me." The words were spoken so mildly that Raoul might have believed him...if not for the small gleam of self-satisfaction shining in his eyes. "If you'd prefer, there's a tavern just up the block. Or did you top off before you came?"

The muscles in Raoul's jaw tightened. "Here is fine."

Erik nodded and swept a hand toward a darkened alcove, where two pews were set up to face each other within a patch of spotlight-bright moonshine flooding in through a small window.

"This location was chosen for practicality's sake," Erik said as they made their way to the waiting seats. "I had my crew finish up early to ensure there'd be no stragglers, and sent my partner to Italy, on a glass-sourcing trip. We can be assured of complete privacy." He whipped the cover off one pew and then the other, and deposited the bundle on the floor. "You'll have to excuse the lack of proper lighting — I'd rather not chance attracting attention by turning on a lamp."

He gestured toward one of the pews, but Raoul remained standing, his face pinched into a frown. " _Your_ crew? What do you mean?"

Erik shrugged and, abandoning the attempt at courtesy, took his seat. He reclined easily, an arm outstretched along the backrest, legs crossed so that the ankle of one leg rested upon the knee of the other, and perhaps it was the angle, but those legs looked very long, _remarkably_ long, much longer than Raoul had remembered. He looked away.

"I've retired from haunting. I make an honest living these days," Erik explained, "as an architect and a business-owner. My company is in the process of renovating this church."

Raoul's face must have reflected the strange sense of confusion he was feeling — of pieces fitting into a puzzle he wasn't aware he'd been assembling — because Erik's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "Is it so strange that the Opera Ghost should have a proper job? I am just a man, after all. I would have thought you understood that quite well, given the nature of this meeting."

Raoul set his mouth into a firm line. Humiliation, he had decided, is a sport which requires two players, and he would not be participating in tonight's game.

He remained silent.

Erik stared at Raoul for a long moment, his hard eyes glinting in the stained glass moonlight. His twisted mouth had lost its smirk. "How on earth did you get her to agree to this scheme?" he asked, finally, shaking his head as if he already couldn't believe whatever explanation Raoul was about to give.

"Well..." With rigid fingers, Raoul spun his hat in his hands — he hadn't exactly worked out the answer to that himself. He had intended to dig a little deeper, but Christine didn't seem to want to talk about it, and things had been going so well between them, and...really, did it even matter?

"It's just as I told you — she desperately wants a child," he said, surprising himself with the smooth confidence of his voice. "And she couldn't deny that you made the most sense as a, _ah_ — as a contributor."

Erik raised his eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

More wasn't _strictly_ necessary — he would bet his every last franc that Erik wouldn't walk away now — but Raoul suspected that something just a _touch_ more compelling would go a long way towards a quick and easy acceptance of his terms. Besides, he hadn't quite started out on the firm footing he'd hoped for… The chance to shift the power balance might be well worth the distastefulness of a little ego-feeding.

Raoul removed his overcoat and put aside his things on the low bench opposite Erik. He sat, his hands gripping the chipped wood on either side of his tensed thighs. "And also…" He suppressed a grimace. "It seems that Christine would like to see you again."

The echoing stillness of the church made Erik's sharp inhale impossible to miss. He eyed Raoul warily, opened his mouth to speak — and then closed it without saying a word.

Raoul bit down on a victorious smile. For the first time, there was no snide retort, only silence as the hard lines of Erik's body subtly softened into a posture that was no longer quite so self-assured.

"I suppose we ought to get right to it, then," Raoul said briskly, reaching into his overcoat and pulling out the folded packet of papers. "I've decided on a few terms that we will need to agree upon. A contract, of sorts." He unfolded the papers, smoothing the pages out on his knees as Erik looked on with undisguised distaste. "I'm going to start with the most important items, to make sure they're given the attention they deserve."

Raoul fixed his eyes on the carefully penned words in his hands. His stomach was churning again. How he longed for just one more cigarette, if only to give his hands something to do other than set the paper trembling. Smoking in a church, however, was out of the question; there was no way around it but to test out his ability to forge ahead, full tilt, blinders firmly in place.

He cleared his throat. "First of all, you must acknowledge that by entering into this arrangement, you agree to give up all rights to physical and legal guardianship of the resulting child, and must never make any claim of paternity. The child _will_ never and _must_ never be told the truth of his parentage. In all respects, the child will be _my_ child and will enjoy all the benefits of that, including eventually inheriting the title of Comte de Chagny. Furthermore—" Raoul broke off as Erik began to chuckle. "What?" he snapped. "Is something about that funny?"

"Honestly?" Erik asked, though if it was meant as a question, he didn't wait for an answer. "I find the way you speak of the outcome with such certainty...charmingly optimistic."

"You don't think it will work?"

Erik lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Who can say? Perhaps it will. But please, go on," he said, extending his hand with a flourish. "I have no wish to dissuade you."

Raoul gave him a simpering look of disgust. "No, I don't imagine you do, do you? Still, in the event that I'm proven right, I must have your word."

"You have it," replied Erik with a spread of his hands, and Raoul could only hope that the words were meant as sincerely as they sounded.

In the quiet moment which followed, Erik shifted in his seat, rearranging those long limbs until he was leaning forward, staring down at his clasped hands. "You know," he said, his voice managing to retain its arrogance despite an unusual tightness, "this might come as a bit of a shock to someone so fixated on parenthood, but I've never had any interest in being a father. And," he added softly, "not only for selfish reasons."

With his bowed head and clasped hands, Erik looked as if he were lost in solitary prayer, and Raoul suddenly wondered if Erik had ever prayed before, and for what, and whether those prayers had ever been answered. Raoul was afraid he already knew the answer to those questions. And for the very first time, he looked — really looked — at the man in front of him and wondered what his life had been like, before.

If Christine knew anything of Erik's past — of his childhood — she'd never spoken of it. But Raoul could imagine...and all at once Erik's last statement became devastatingly clear.

What could Erik possibly have to offer a child when _he_ had doubtless received nothing but rejection, revulsion, and cruelty?

It seemed Erik understood this about himself. And Raoul thought he might be beginning to understand him, too...

He gave a curt nod of acknowledgement.

"Furthermore," he continued crisply, returning to his prepared speech as if there'd been no interruption, "to reinforce the contractual nature of this arrangement, you will receive a payment of 100,000 francs. Half up front, half when the pregnancy is confirmed."

Erik's head snapped up. "Absolutely not. I neither need nor want your money." He narrowed his eyes. "And I don't at all care for the implication."

"I insist." Raoul straightened his spine. "Call it a token of appreciation for your time, or go ahead and donate it, if you're so virtuous now — I don't care. But I intend to make it _very_ clear that this is business, not pleasure."

For a long moment, Erik glared at him, very hard, as if he could burn him with the heat of his eyes.

It wouldn't work.

Raoul simply stared back, unmoved, until at last, Erik looked away with a grumble of assent.

"Alright, then," Raoul said, savoring the small, sweet pleasure of his win. "So now that we're agreed, there's some planning to work out. As much as I hope that this process will be quick, I understand that these things can take time, so I'd like to propose we give this a trial of six months. Could you commit to that?"

Erik's expression went as blank and inscrutable as if the mask covered his face entirely. He nodded.

"Good. I know you must be busy, but do you think you can manage twice, perhaps three times a week?"

Another nod.

"Wonderful. We can determine the schedule on an ongoing basis, working around our various obligations," Raoul paused, looking up from his papers with a sharp eye. "Of course, once she becomes pregnant, all contact stops immediately."

A muscle tensed in Erik's jaw, but again, he nodded.

Raoul drew a finger down the paper, letting it rest on the final line. "Lastly, if a healthy child is born, and all parties are willing, we would like the option to repeat the contract. It would be best for siblings to come from the same stock, as it were. Is that something you would consider?"

There was a pause, followed by yet another nod.

"Alright then, very good." Raoul shuffled the pages on his lap. "Now, onto some logistics. Considering all the options, I'd like to propose that the _ah_ , appointments take place at our chateau in Chagny. There's a caretaker's cottage that hasn't been in use—"

"No."

The one short syllable was spoken like the slamming of a door.

" _No?_ " Raoul frowned. "But the privacy—"

Erik snorted. "For whom? How do you propose I get to and from such a remote location so frequently without attracting attention?"

"Well that's a problem we can—"

"It's not just that." Erik said, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. "I know the responsibility of employment is not something you're familiar with, _Vicomte_ , but I have a job, and I'll need to be able to get back and forth from Brussels efficiently." He sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. "Paris is much easier."

"Yes," Raoul admitted, forcing his words out through clenched teeth, "but we don't have any privacy at our home there."

"No, but I do at mine."

"Under the Opera?" Raoul scoffed, a short bitter laugh which echoed off the brick walls. "Out of the question! I will _not_ send her back down into that foul, stinking pit of _Hell._ "

Erik sighed. "Oh, come now. You've been there quite recently, you know that description is not accurate. The only _foul_ thing about it was _your_ vomit all over my carpet, which I have since taken care of."

An irritating tickle of warmth inched its way up the back of Raoul's neck, and he silently cursed himself for the hundredth time for making himself such an easy target. His mouth, however, stayed tightly shut.

"She will be quite comfortable," Erik continued, "with privacy beyond compare. There's an easy path through the cellars I can show you, and you apparently already know about the gate which opens on the Rue Scribe; you can come and go easily without notice. And there are plenty of cafes and clubs nearby. You can stay close and pass the time with a drink or two, if you like."

"I've given up drinking," Raoul mumbled.

"Have you? I'm glad to hear that. I do hope you stick to it." Erik reclined against the backrest with a small, sly smile upon his odd, contorted lips. "I suppose we'll see."

Raoul ground his teeth. He'd expected the endless needling — it was not appreciated, no, but it _was_ anticipated — however, making this absurd demand which threatened the very integrity of Raoul's painstakingly constructed plan? _Unbelievable. Intolerable!_ He shot up from his seat, stalking over to the very edge of the slowly dwindling band of moonlight.

"I won't budge on this," came Erik's voice from behind him. "You can take it or leave it."

Raoul looked back over his shoulder, squinting across the distance at that brazen masked _miscreant_ , who couldn't have appeared any more disinterested in Raoul's answer.

 _What game was he playing?_ Surely he was bluffing.

But if not…

How could Raoul possibly agree? Obviously, anything Erik insisted upon could not be trusted — which was why it was so incredibly vexing that he _did_ have some valid points. _Too many,_ Raoul had to admit. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

" _Fine._ But I won't be leaving her down there unless she finds everything to her satisfaction."

Erik nodded. "Of course. Not to worry—" he said lightly, with a smile so unassuming it absolutely had to be assumed. "I shall see to it that the lady is completely satisfied."

Blinded by indignation of the most righteous sort fizzing red-hot behind his eyes, Raoul nearly stomped over to slap that smile right off the bastard's revolting face. But at the last moment, with a silent roar of frustration vibrating in his chest, he planted his feet and looked away; there was nothing to be gained from dignifying that bit of tasteless insinuation with a response.

Besides...Raoul supposed he could only blame himself — he had set that one right up, hadn't he?

Instead, he smiled back in a tight, sour expression intended to convey the full _depth_ of his gratitude, and returned to his seat. "Here's how it will go — you will _meet_ us at the gate, and then _you_ will take her down and back up. Twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?" Erik laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "That's barely enough time to make it down from the street and back. Or were you expecting this to take place in an alley?"

Raoul's lips pressed into a thin line. "Alright, fine. Thirty."

"An hour."

" _An hour?_ " Raoul sputtered. "There's no need for you to be taking your time with this! You shouldn't need more than a few minutes."

" _A few...minutes..._ " Erik repeated slowly, drawing the words out until they dangled sickeningly in the air between them. He arched his brow. "I see."

Stinging heat singed the edges of Raoul's ears. "Alright...an hour," he snapped, grabbing at his sheaf of papers, shuffling and rearranging them in a likely useless attempt to distract from the conflagration sweeping across his cheeks. "But if she's not back in exactly one hour, then I will have no regrets about sending the gendarmes after you."

Erik tipped his head. "Fair enough."

As the heat receded from Raoul's face, the familiar queasy churn of nausea began to stir his stomach. He swallowed against the thick, hot lump building in his throat. "Now, for the first time," he said, working hard to keep his words steady, "I will escort her down, make sure that she feels comfortable and that the space is acceptable, and then I will go. Then—" he paused, wetting his dry lips, "you do what needs to be done, and when she's ready, escort her back. I'll be waiting. But," he added, a hitch in his already strained voice, " _you_ hang back. I— I don't want to see you afterward."

Raoul darted his eyes up, bracing himself for the stinging slap of Erik's smug satisfaction — and instead found himself hit with something completely unexpected...and far worse: the corner of Erik's mouth had pulled down into a frown which looked very much like sympathy.

The muscles across Raoul's chest tightened.

Did Erik feel bad for... _him?_

 _Well!— No thank you, sir._ Sympathy was _quite_ unnecessary.

This was all _his_ _own_ idea. Raoul knew full well what he was getting into, he'd chosen this path — _Christ_ , he'd even chosen Erik! Obviously, there would be some...discomfort involved, but he hardly needed his hand held because of it.

Raoul's face fell into a scowl. A dozen different responses swirled in his mouth...but none stuck to his lips.

And perhaps it was just as well; Raoul could feel the inconvenient prickle of hot tears in his eyes, and he did not trust that they would stay put, were he to try to speak on the subject again.

Blinking hard, Raoul flipped through the pile of papers until he found a series of pages marked with a series of boldly printed lines. "Next," he announced brusquely, "we need to discuss the rules. _Yes,_ there are rules," he continued over Erik's exasperated sigh. "I'm not a complete fool. I might trust you in some respects, but I won't be giving you the opportunity to use this situation to your advantage."

Erik tilted his head in wry acknowledgement, his lips slanting into a broad smile. "You know, that might be the most sensible thing I've ever heard you say." He leaned back, stretching out his legs — those long, strangely disconcerting legs — in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. "Alright, then. Let's hear your rules."

Raoul jerked his eyes back to the sheets he clutched in his hands. "There are eight rules," he said, his voice satisfyingly sharp. "If any one of them is broken, it will be grounds for immediate termination of this arrangement." He jabbed a finger at the first line. " _One:_ You must never leave the premises together. _Two:_ There shall be no contact outside of these visits. _Three:_ " he glanced up, making certain he looked that tricky devil right in the eyes, "You are absolutely _not_ allowed to sing to her. I've seen you hypnotize her with your voice, and I won't have it. Likewise, _Four:_ No playing the piano, or organ, or whatever that thing is. Do I make myself understood?"

That mask-blank expression had returned to Erik's face. "Perfectly."

Raoul eyed Erik's exposed features, searching for any sign of deceit. His lips, full and delicately shaped until they faded into swollen, gnarled deformity, were firmly pressed together, causing the sharp line of his jaw to stand out like cut marble. His deep-set eye was pure cool dispassion; in the moon-bleached light, it was the rich, glossy black of polished jet. Above it, the dark brow arched elegantly, without its usual quirk of condescension, the finely tapered end slanting toward a high, noble cheekbone and _oh dear God, he'd made a horrible mistake, hadn't he?_

Spots shimmered and popped in Raoul's vision. Though he struggled to hear his own thoughts over his thudding heart, one realization screamed out loud and clear: _that rich, silky voice...the graceful movements of those long, lean limbs…the handsome contours of the face which Raoul's horrified eyes still rested upon_ — there _was_ an undeniable attractiveness to Erik.

A fact that was very much at odds with Raoul's gleeful certainty that he was completely _un_ attractive.

_Shit._

How had he not noticed before? Had he been so blinded by his loathing of the man?

Oh god— _had_ _Christine noticed?_

No... _no,_ that was a _ridiculous_ notion. Christine had agreed _despite_ her lack of attraction. _She couldn't possibly—_ Raoul pressed a fist to his roiling stomach. No, she'd only been drawn to him by the bond of music, that hypnotizing voice, the link to her dead father, certainly not because— _Oh no no no..._

Suddenly, Raoul couldn't pull enough air into his burning lungs. It _wasn't_ possible. He'd thought this out perfectly! Erik had been a safe choice because there was no danger whatsoever of Christine running off with him. She would _never_ abandon a life of beauty in the light to crawl in the darkness alongside a repulsive outcast, who could never give her what Raoul could.

But...what if instead of repulsion, there was attraction? Real, physical attraction? A sheen of sweat slicked Raoul's forehead. And he wasn't such an outcast anymore, either. No longer a phantom, he was just Erik, a man with a very normal — respectable, even — profession. Looking at him now, no longer blinded by sheer loathing or by desperation or by the past, Raoul had to acknowledge that he could easily pass as just another gentlemen of the _haute bourgeoisie_ , and a good-looking one at that, if not for the—

_Ah._

Right, _the mask._ In that panicked moment of awful epiphany, he'd completely forgotten the utter horror of the secret it hid. Raoul drew in a shaky breath and thanked God for the hideous, rotted face hidden behind the smooth white porcelain.

Attractiveness and suitability, when it came down to it, weren't all-or-nothing. Perhaps Erik had some...commendable qualities, but how much were they worth when his flaws were bad enough that he'd had to spend years in hiding, creeping around a dank basement like a ghoul?

What was it Christine had said, that night on the rooftop? Something about how she could _never_ forget how distorted and awful that face was? No, there was _nothing_ to worry about. Raoul closed his eyes and blew out a long, slow breath, deeply grateful that his judgement wasn't as poor as he feared, after all.

" _Five…?"_

Raoul's eyes snapped open. Erik was watching him intently, head cocked.

"Ah, yes...five." Raoul cleared his throat and scanned the paper for where he'd left off.

His stomach dropped the moment his eyes caught on the next line.

" _Five:_ Both parties—" he swallowed thickly, "shall only take off as much clothing as needed." Raoul kept his gaze trained on the sharp pen strokes, letting everything else blur into nonexistence. " _Six:_ Only acts which are— which are necessary to lead to—" bile began to sting the back of his throat, "to lead to conception are allowed. Which means—"

He needed a moment.

Swallowing down the sour burn, Raoul shifted on the hard bench. One-by-one, he swiped his damp palms over the smooth wool of his trousers and chanced a glance at Erik, who lifted his brow.

"Go on…?" he drawled, punctuating the words with a spiraling sweep of his hand, the long, fine-boned fingers sleek and controlled and _Christ, not the hands, too!_

With a grimace, Raoul forced the remaining words out in a rush of constricted breath. "Which means you are _very_ careful about where you put your hands. And don't you dare _think_ about kissing her."

Erik crossed his arms across his chest. "Will you be dictating specific positions, as well?"

Raoul flinched. His eyes darted down to the new page he'd just uncovered.

Heat flooded his face.

"Of course not, don't be vulgar," he snapped, quickly shuffling the page to the back of the pile. He'd dispose of the evidence later. It was no loss, he wouldn't have been able to say it without retching anyway. "But...I do expect that she should be allowed to make the decisions regarding that," he added, the sick twisting of his stomach providing a welcome distraction from the meaning of the words he was saying.

"Finally, and most importantly—" Raoul slapped one last page on top of the pile. " _Seven:_ You shall make no attempt to see the child. Ever."

"I thought you said there were eight?" Erik asked so very innocently that Raoul knew immediately that there was nothing innocent about it. Erik knew damn well what was on that paper, and of course he did: so much for Raoul trying to keep his emotions off of his face.

But two could play at that game. If Erik wanted to play at being naive, then so could Raoul.

"Oh, did I? Then I suppose I must have misspoken," he said breezily, ignoring Erik's smirk. "Now, I'm going to have to insist that you formally sign off on this." He gathered up the entire stack of papers and tapped them into a neat pile. "I realize that I am perhaps making a mistake here, but I can't have you claiming we agreed upon something other than what we've just discussed," he said rummaging in his overcoat for his pen. "I will keep this document safe for now, and destroy it when it's no longer needed. I think you'll understand why I won't be giving you a copy of your own, but since you're supposedly such a _genius_ , I'm assuming that you'll be fine without one. Do you think you've got it all?"

"Every word." The shadow of a smile rested upon Erik's lips.

A prickle of gooseflesh ran up Raoul's arms; he shivered and pulled his jacket tight. It was time to wrap this up...it was getting quite late, and _quite_ cold…

"Well then, I think that covers it. I'll just need you to make your mark here." Raoul handed over the contract and pen; he gnawed at his bottom lip as Erik scratched out his signature. "Actually—" Raoul cleared his throat. "There is one more thing…"

One more thing: one more concern, yet unspoken, lingering in the back of his mind. Raoul had been uncertain if he'd have the nerve to speak it, but he _was_ certain he would regret it if he didn't.

"It's ah— not something I've discussed with my wife, for what will be obvious reasons, but I feel this needs to be addressed."

With narrowed eyes, Erik handed back the pen and papers.

Raoul folded the packet and began to tuck everything back into his overcoat. He took a quick breath. "Look, this is rather delicate," he said, keeping his eyes trained on the work being done by his trembling hands. "I don't care to intrude on your private affairs, but...I have to insist that if you, ah—" Raoul swallowed, "employ the services of— of _ladies of the night,_ that you refrain from doing so for the duration of the arrangement. Christine's health is of the utmost importance, as I'm sure you'd agree and I won't have her exposed—"

Erik shot from his seat, a blur of black. "I have never, and _would_ never pay for a woman's comforts," he spat. "Regardless of what you might think, that's never been necessary." He turned and stalked over to the window, his hands clenched into fists.

"Understood," Raoul replied measuredly. "Can I ask for abstinence aside from these visits, then?"

Erik paused and fixed Raoul with a shrewd, thoughtful look as the seconds dragged on in complete, oppressive silence save for the low howl of wind against the old window.

"Not a problem," Erik snapped, finally. He turned his face away with a jerk.

"Very well." Raoul nodded and reached for his overcoat. "Shall we begin next Saturday? Does that work for you?"

"Not so fast, _Vicomte._ I have some requests of my own."

Raoul's coat dropped from his hand. "Excuse me?"

Erik lifted his chin. "I don't want you asking details of her. I value my privacy, too, and I want your word you won't go prying. She can confirm that she felt safe and comfortable and was treated with respect, but that's plenty for you." He held up a hand as Raoul's mouth opened in protest, silencing him with a flick of his wrist.

"This is for your sake, too, you know. You're acting quite cool about this now, but once the questions begin, where will they end?" Erik took a few slow, deliberate steps forward. "I suggest that you try to put the whole thing from your mind." His dark eyes glittered. "Or it just might eat you alive."

"Noted," Raoul replied, summoning all his will to keep the twitching muscles in his face smooth and expressionless. "Is that all?"

"Not quite. There's one important question you haven't touched upon." Erik's voice had dropped into something rough and toneless, much different than his usual sleek, melodic control. It raised the hairs on the back of Raoul's neck. "What is your plan for dealing with a monstrous birth?"

Raoul tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "Well, I… I—"

_Still haven't decided._

That was the honest answer.

And what was wrong with that? He would have nine months at the very least to figure something out; there was no need to rush a decision.

"Well, you'd better think on it." Erik's tone was as impenetrable as the shadows surrounding them. "But if I were you," he said as he stepped out of the now very narrow band of moonlight and was swallowed by the darkness, "I would smother it, and tell her it never drew breath." Raoul could hear the echo of footsteps crossing behind him. "It would be a kindness to everyone — the child most of all." The echoing steps came to a stop directly behind where Raoul sat, tensed and waiting.

Erik's voice was a ghostly whisper in his ear.

"Trust me."

An uncontrollable shudder rippled across Raoul's shoulders. He huffed out a shaky breath. "What a ghastly thing to say, Erik!"

Although, perhaps Erik knew quite well what he was saying…

_No._

Raoul shook his head, clearing away the insidious, cajoling whispers of the treacherous idea.

If there were one line to be drawn between Erik and Raoul, this was it. Raoul would not so much as _think_ such a thing.

"Now see here," Raoul said, spinning around to confront him, "I won't have you saying these sorts of things to—"

But Erik wasn't there. He'd simply disappeared.

A flush of scorching heat surged through Raoul's body, head to toe, building in his chest and curling his hands into fists of impotent rage.

_That damned slippery devil!_

Raoul brought his fist down on the unyielding wood of the pew's backrest with a crack — and a humiliating yelp of pain. He cradled his throbbing hand, cursing under his breath—

And hoping very sincerely that, somehow, the distant, ringing sound of soft laughter was only the wind.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that went well! Anyone keeping track of how many mistakes Raoul made there? Whatever you do, don't make a drinking game of it - don't want anyone ending up in the hospital! He really is trying his best though, sweet boy. Fingers crossed for you, buddy! (BTW, for some very mildly spoiler-adjacent FAQs, to help ease some various worries about the direction of this story please make sure you read to the end of these notes. If you want to be 100% surprised in every way, I'll give you fair warning as to when to stop.)
> 
> Thank you so very much to you all. Not just to those who like/want to/are able to/etc interact, (though also I need to say that you all know how much I appreciate hearing from every single one of you who do - it truly boosts me through some rough times, both with writing and with life in general), but to all of you who take to the time to read. I have never met a chapter I didn't double from its intended length, and this one was my longest yet. I realize reading this is a time investment, and I honestly just can't thank you enough. Such an honor.
> 
> EDIT: I meant to add this earlier, but better late than never. I LOVE to read fic. Many of you readers are also writers and I SEE YOU, and I feel bad not reading in return. But I've found out the hard way that I really cannot read much while I'm in the middle of my own writing. And not just because I have such limited time (though that is also for dang sure). With so many different versions of the same characters, it muddles things up too much for me, and I worry about subconsciously swiping phrases or characterizations from other places. So, I've had to take a break, though occasionally I'll cheat and read a little one-shot. Anyway, please trust that I have a list of fics to read a mile long, and cannot wait to get a chance to binge, binge, binge!!
> 
> Up next: The trio is back together again! Reuniteeed and it feeeeeels so ...awkward? Probably! Find out in Chapter 14.
> 
> Thanks again, everyone, and I hope you enjoyed! Those two are so much fun to write, I think that was my favorite chapter so far. :)
> 
> xo Flora
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> OKAY. I'm not really giving away anything much plot-wise, but if you would like to know NOTHING about the direction of the story, then do stop reading.
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> ...
> 
> Alright, then. There are two questions/concerns I get frequently, so I'm going to clarify here.
> 
> 1\. No, despite how things could seem, this is not heading towards a situation where all three are involved with one another. There will be no E/R, no enemies to lovers. That is not their jam. We can hope for something other than bitter rivalry, but it won't be romance or sex. So whether that's a relief or a disappointment, there you have it. And as a side-note...even if we're not heading into throuple territory, it should be obvious by now that if you're not comfortable with anything other than strict monogamy...hoooo boy, is this not the story for you!
> 
> 2\. People are worried about how bad Raoul's ending will be, to which I say...why are you so sure he'd be the one with the unhappy ending? Wow, no confidence for Raoul and his scheme! Honestly, this could go any number of ways, couldn't it? Here's the thing I'll say...when all is said and done, none of them is going to end up miserable. There's angst, and they'll be put through the wringer, and not everybody (or anybody!) will get the exact ending they thought they might get - but none of them is getting a "sad" ending. So rest assured that you can get attached without the fear of having your favorite being done dirty. I'll be nice...enough. :)


	14. Seal My Fate Tonight

**Seal My Fate Tonight**

Over the years, Erik had the opportunity to observe many dramas unfold upon the stage, the scenes played out by an endless parade of performers. Most actors truly did seem to give it their all. But some, he had noticed, had a way of letting the work flow right through them, hitting all their marks and singing all the right notes, while never fully inhabiting the character. The body would be there under the stage lights, manipulating props and dancing in front of the painted backdrops and duetting with their partners, but the heart and soul were somewhere else entirely.

At times, especially when the actors were simply bored or lazy, this was glaringly obvious, and the audience would walk away from the theater grumbling, feeling cheated. Often, though, the audience was none the wiser.

But Erik could always tell. Watching from the eaves or concealed in secret places, nothing escaped his notice. Usually, he found such acting offensive.

Usually — but not always.

He had learned from his years of sharp-eyed observation that there were those who appeared at first glance to be part of that group, but who were in truth something altogether different.

These rare cases tended to be those who had begun their career with a tender heart, pouring their entire soul into their song. The result could be transcendent — as he experienced with young Mademoiselle Daaé — but it could also be a very naive, very costly mistake, and those who'd learned that lesson had learned it well.

Their covert disconnection was born of simple self-preservation.

Such actors were not jaded, they were wise, and they knew the dark truth of theater: some dramas can carve up the heart as skillfully as any knife. They understood that if they weren't careful, by the end of their career they would have nothing of themselves left, having bled it all out onto the floorboards.

The solution was to not allow yourself to feel it — to not let it become real. It was difficult work, an invaluable skill — and one Erik was quite familiar with.

It was why his hands were so steady as he tucked in the last corner of the freshly laundered linen sheet. It was also why, were he to make a trip to the surface at exactly nine o' clock and find no one there waiting, perhaps because they'd finally come to their senses and backed out of this ridiculous plan, it would hardly be a disappointment.

And it certainly wouldn't be a heart-breaking, soul-crushing disaster.

That wasn't only self-preservation talking, either; it was also cold, hard logic.

When Erik had opened the note passed through Giry, he'd stared at the two brief sentences in stunned silence for an immeasurable length of time. At some point — he couldn't say when, though he suspected it had taken a while for his ears to register the sound — he'd begun to laugh. Had he ever laughed so hard before in his life? He thought not. It's not as if there had been all that much to find funny over the course of his bleak existence.

He laughed and he laughed until tears flowed, and the tears kept flowing, long past when the laughter dried up. It felt silly and shameful but also cathartic and so very good to _feel_ again.

_She had agreed._

It couldn't be true, but it was. He would see her again, and not because he was the one to force it to happen. _She_ had come to _him_.

Or something close enough to that, anyway.

Early on, there had been guilty fantasies of a stolen glimpse from afar, perhaps as she stepped out of her carriage to take a walk in the sun, her excruciatingly lovely face tipped up to drink in its golden warmth. Never, not even in those fantasies, did he imagine that they would be close enough to speak.

To touch.

To—

And it was exactly then that he remembered just what it was that she'd agreed to. He could have laughed again at the absurdity of it, but suddenly it didn't seem so funny.

The next morning, things were much more clear. It _was_ absurd. It made absolutely no sense, none at all — that was what Nadir had said, and he was right.

Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about this added up.

But what can one do when one has every reason to doubt, yet can't bear to extinguish that stubborn little flame of hope? The best course of action, Erik decided, was to become an actor, playing the part of himself — detached, not truly inhabiting the role — and let the drama unfold.

He could only hope that with enough focus and enough skill, the audience would be none the wiser.

Erik ran a hand over the bedspread, smoothing the last little wrinkles from the black silk. It was as good as it was going to get. Not that he was sure it would even matter. He added one last pillow, and then, after a moment's consideration, snatched it off and tucked it away in the wardrobe. There were plenty of pillows already. Too many, perhaps.

Wait...were there too many?

 _Oh god_ — he collapsed on the bed, ruining all his careful work — _what was he doing?_ He already felt like a complete fool, and he hadn't even been proven one yet.

At least he wouldn't have to hear about it from Nadir. That is, assuming he survived the likely fatal blow of rejection to see him again.

Nadir had served as Erik's first audience, and his debut performance could not have gone better, though, in fairness, that role would have been undemanding enough for even an amateur to play with reasonable success. Erik broke the five days of stony silence with a peace offering of an exceptionally good bottle of Bordeaux, and with no reason to bring up their prior discussion and plenty else to distract themselves with, they fell right back into their old, easy patterns. They actually _were_ in need of a particular type of Venetian glass to repair a broken window, so Erik didn't feel the least bit guilty about sending Nadir off to Italy the day before he'd arranged to meet with Monsieur le Vicomte. It was simply a matter of convenient timing.

Despite the fact that their age gap made them closer to brothers, Nadir, Erik had a feeling, saw him as something of a wayward son, in need of a firm, fatherly hand to guide him. It was a dynamic that Erik might have taken issue with, but he knew that the loss of his actual son was an invisible, yet immeasurably heavy weight Nadir carried with him every moment of every day, and he wondered if perhaps it gave him some little relief to have someone to look after in that way.

And, though he would never admit to it out loud, Erik found that it was also something of a relief to be looked after, as well.

Nadir had been so adamant that Erik not get involved because he wanted to protect him. Erik understood that and he did appreciate it, but it really wasn't necessary, especially not now that he'd begun to perfect his craft. Even if this idea did turn out as "spectacularly horrible" as Nadir predicted, Erik was in no danger so long as he just kept moving through the scenery, untouched by real feeling.

Erik's second performance — his meeting with the vicomte — had been a true _tour de force_. There had been a few minor instances where he may have fumbled his lines, going off script and allowing those hated cracks in his carefully-cultivated façade to let something genuine seep out, but on the whole, it had been a triumph. Knowing the whole thing was nothing but a ridiculous farce, he'd been determined to at least have some fun with it, and despite the years that had passed, taunting the little vicomte and watching him squirm was still an unparalleled delight. Perhaps the satisfaction was like a fine wine, only becoming sweeter and more complex as time went by.

If he'd expected the encounter to give him any clarity, however, he'd been sorely disappointed. The only thing the vicomte _had_ managed to make clear was that he was controlling, demanding, and desperate to keep the one he loved at all costs — as it turned out, they did have a few things in common.

But there had been one critical asset which Erik possessed that the vicomte apparently did not: an appreciation for the importance of precision of language.

It was no secret that Erik was an unashamed opportunist, he would never try to pretend otherwise. Tantalizing opportunities had begun to present themselves as quickly as the litany of rules and requests had passed through the boy's quivering lips, though exactly how they could be taken advantage of was still as uncertain as whether or not he'd even have the chance to try to find out.

Erik removed his mask and ran his hands over his bare face; the air was cool and soothing on his flushed skin. He needed to think clearly and honestly, and if he couldn't be honest with himself in this unguarded state, then perhaps he had no chance at honesty at all.

The truth, he hated to have to admit, was that one of those "minor instances" of letting his guard down during that meeting was not such a _minor_ thing at all, and the closer the hands on the clock ticked toward nine, the more he began to wonder if her not showing up would really be the worse of the two scenarios.

It had been, he now realized, a senseless mistake to ask how she had come to agree to the plan. Erik could try to tell himself that he'd hoped the answer would be disheartening enough to keep him detached, but the fact of it was that he simply couldn't resist. He didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't anything as brutally wonderful as hearing that she _wanted to see him._ It was a rush of oxygen to that flickering flame of hope, and the resulting flare was so hot and bright that it physically hurt. Perhaps he had been right before: it would be for the best if it were extinguished, only this time so completely there could never be any possibility of it rekindling.

Even better, he could be the one to put a stop to all of this madness. He could take the late train back to Brussels and never come back to this place, and continue to live out his newly-built life. One of small, simple pleasures and even, easy emotions. A life that was quiet and predictable and just good enough.

Erik stood and replaced his mask, the rigid contours of the porcelain pressing into the sensitive twisted flesh beneath. He could do that, yes — but what Opera Ghost worth the title could resist the lure of a grand drama, even knowing full well it might end in tragedy?

With hands now even steadier than before, Erik swiftly fixed the mess he'd made of the bedding and had started to turn to go when he paused, taking one last lingering look back.

Then, with a few long, purposeful strides and a decisive sweep of his arm, he sent all but a few pillows tumbling onto the floor and kicked them soundly under the bed.

Really, it had been a ridiculous number of pillows.

**…**

He'd left his pocket watch behind on purpose. In the too-quiet passage where he waited, hidden in the shadows just beyond the checkered beams of streetlight falling through the grate, its incessant ticking would have driven him mad.

Not that he would have had to listen to it for long. He had only managed a few rounds of deep breaths before the screech of the rusted iron hinges echoed off the stone walls of the passage, catching him mid-inhale.

She was _here._

He knew it the moment the figure stepped into the passage.

He _felt_ it.

But he couldn't believe it.

Covered in a hooded cloak and lit from behind, she was a dark ghost, inexplicably raised from the ruined graveyard of his tortured mind.

That was the only reasonable explanation, anyway.

But then a second, larger figure stepped forward and hooked a protective arm around the little ghost, and she looked undeniably solid in that possessive grip.

She _was_ here and it might never make sense but in the moment sense didn't seem like something that mattered in the least, and it was fortunate that Erik had attained such mastery over those silly, unnecessary emotions of his, or perhaps he would have cried right then and there from the sheer relief of it. Or perhaps from some other feeling quite the opposite of relief which he didn't want to recognize, not now. Not when it was far too late for second thoughts.

So instead he calmly finished his inhale, counted to five, exhaled slowly, and stepped out of the dark.

"Erik."

The two men faced each other, the blessedly corporeal apparition with the shadowed face silent between them.

"Vicomte."

And then, without another word, they descended into the underworld, careful not to look back.

**...**

Like each one prior, the final leg of the journey was made in complete silence, except for the intermittent plunk and splash of the pole dipping in and out of the water, propelling the boat to glide along the dark glass surface of the lake with rhythmic strokes. Erik kept his eyes trained on their destination, glancing down at the couple huddled together only once. Or maybe twice. And as they disembarked, he focused on the cold, heavy chain slipping through his fingers as he secured the boat, and most definitely not on the sight of her delicate little hand clasped securely in her husband's broad, tanned hands as he helped her onto the dock.

They climbed the steps to the narrow walkway which ran parallel to the lake, bordered on its opposite side by a featureless stone wall. At the point where the faint rippling light reflecting off the water began to fade into complete darkness, Erik motioned for them to stop, and with the stealthy work of a practiced hand, he tripped the hidden mechanism. The vicomte took a stumbling step backwards at the sudden jarring clunk and grind of the stones as they slid apart to reveal the secret passage leading to the door, rewarding Erik with a gratifying surge of warmth from breastbone to fingertips. He hadn't actually needed to close it in the first place, given that he was only planning on being gone a short time, but Erik was aware of how startling the effect could be, and well.. _._ some pleasures truly never grow old.

With his shoulders set a little straighter after that small, petty victory, Erik opened the door and stepped aside, performing a sweeping bow as he welcomed the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny into his home. A bow that, he had to admit, was blatantly theatrical and borderline-mocking and was likely taking the act a touch too far, but which did give him a good excuse to keep his eyes on the floor as they passed by.

He straightened up and turned toward the room, and all at once he found that couldn't tell if it was the rush of blood back into his head that made his vision swim, or the fact that she was actually — wondrously, inexplicably, but _actually_ — standing there in his parlor. And before he could blink the room back into stationary submission, her hands were on the hem of her hood and in one of those breathless moments of dramatic cliché where time stops and the orchestra swells and the lovers are reunited — a convention which he usually detested but which now felt so authentic and so beautiful and yet so unbearably, heart-rendingly painful — she lifted the hood back from her shadowed face and let it drop onto her shoulders.

 _Thank god_ he'd still had his hand on the doorknob or his buckling knees would have had him on the floor before he'd even known what hit him.

She was even more dazzling than he remembered, and whether that was because of the fading of his memory or because her radiance had only continued to increase over the years he did not know. What he did know — a realization that struck him like a slap upside the head and left him just as dizzy — was that he was not only one of the world's ugliest men but also one of its stupidest.

How could he have thought for even a minute that he would be able to play this ridiculous role without engaging his heart and soul, when the one person who had ever seen into his sorry, broken soul, and who had held his damaged heart in her gentle hands would be his scene partner? The realization left him flooded with mortifying contrition, yet the acknowledgment and acceptance of it felt pure and divine, and he could have fallen to his knees, begging her forgiveness and pitifully laying that imperfect heart and soul at her feet — if not for her damnable _husband_ standing right there, watching them both with narrowed eyes.

With a long, low exhale, Erik turned to close the door, in desperate need of the opportunity to pull himself together.

Very well. He had been delusional and horribly misguided. That was nothing new. It didn't mean that he had to let it affect him the way it might have back in the days before he'd committed to careful self-control. Maybe he'd fooled himself into getting involved in this dangerous game, but she was here now and he would never back out; he would simply have to play along and see this thing through to its uncertain conclusion, with the certainty that even if it ended as badly as it possibly could, it would have all been worth it just to have had seen her face this one more time.

But for now...perhaps keeping his eyes off her face would be best, if he hoped to keep any semblance of composure.

And so, as he swung back around to face his guests, Erik kept his gaze lowered, letting it rest instead on her hands, which were buried in her skirts — twisting and pinching and pulling and gripping the smooth silk.

_Ah._

Erik set his jaw and looked up from those pale, clutching hands to see the vicomte eyeing him in that anxious, assessing way he often did. That wary gaze flicked to his silent wife and then back again to Erik, and he cleared his throat. "Well, I don't think there's any way of making this less uncomfortable, so I'd prefer if we forgo the pleasantries and just get it over with, if that works for you." The vicomte took his wife by the arm. "Now, if you'll be so good as to show us to the— the ah, wherever it is that you intend to..."

Gesturing toward the hall, Erik led them to the room he'd prepared, filled with his poor, dead mother's furniture, the bed itself the likely site of his unfortunate conception, realizing too late that the choice of setting was all but tempting fate.

Ushering his wife in before him, the vicomte turned and gave Erik a look which left no doubt that he was not meant to follow.

That was just fine with him; he needed the time to think.

Because, finally, things were adding up.

He knew it the moment he saw those small hands working the fabric of her skirts — an unconscious tell he had picked up on back in the days of dressing room lessons, when the Angel of Music's keen eyes never left her for a moment and had memorized the meaning of her every movement.

She was uncertain.

Finally, it all made sense.

She had not agreed to this whole-heartedly.

And that meant one of two things: either she agreed under duress, in which case he would finally have to kill the despicable little vicomte, or...she had agreed for some other reason, without wanting to follow through. In either case, he would have to get to the bottom of it when they were alone.

The soft click of a latch told Erik that he was out of time to figure out the best way to do so, however.

He turned toward the sound just in time to see the vicomte press his palm to the closed door, his darkly-circled eyes squeezed shut. Erik pivoted away, busying his hands by collecting the few stray books he'd left laying around, while internally, he busied himself by trying to explain away the sudden tightness that had appeared in his throat.

"Alright then," the vicomte's voice, strained under its brusque veneer, came from behind him. "It looks like a funeral home in there, but that does seem to be your style, doesn't it? In any case, everything seems adequate and on the up and up, so I suppose it's time for me to take my leave."

Erik placed the stack of books on the side table and gave a single nod of accord. "You can take the boat — I have another. Just leave the lantern by the gate."

A flicker of alarm crossed the vicomte's face, and just as he must have, Erik remembered the boy's last solo encounter with those dark waters. A pleasantly unpleasant tickle of amusement passed through him; he could feel the taunt forming on his lips before his mind even knew what the words would be.

But then the boy was blinking, those clear blue eyes reddened around their rims, and the words evaporated.

He really was just a boy, wasn't he? He was closer to half Erik's age than he'd like to admit, but with far, far less than half of Erik's life experience.

He wanted so badly to curse that foolish boy for the pang of sympathy he felt like a knife twisting in his gut — but he just couldn't. Perhaps he was getting soft.

Or...perhaps there was a kind of peace in feeling sympathy for this man he'd blindly hated.

And while it was likely that they could never truly understand each other, seeing him now, heart-sick and afraid and trying desperately to hide it, willingly giving the woman he loved — loved more than absolutely _anything_ — to another man…. Why, that Erik could understand quite well.

Erik's lips pressed into a humorless — but not unkind — smile.

"You'll be fine, Vicomte," he said evenly. "Just go slowly and mind that third step down to the dock. It tends to be quite slick."

The boy nodded, his eyes downcast, and without another word, he staggered to the door. As he pulled it closed behind him, he paused, locking his eyes onto Erik's from across the room.

His voice was ragged, but firm.

"Take care with her, Erik."

And then the boy turned his face away and jerked the door shut with a bang.

**...**

Erik eased open the door, and incredibly, neither its quiet creak nor the thunderous thudding of his heart announced his presence.

She stood across the room, her back to him, in front of his mother's old dressing table. Attached to its polished top was his home's only mirror, draped in black satin; he watched as she trailed her fingers over the slick, softly shimmering cloth and sighed.

He hadn't actually said her name out loud since that night, when she'd pressed his ring back into his palm and he curled his fingers around her shaking hand, trying to pour endless love and apology and so much more into just four words — the last words he thought he'd ever speak to her.

Now, with just barely enough air in his lungs, he spoke her name.

" _Christine."_

After so many years, that name was sweeter on his tongue than he ever could have imagined, and at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to say it a hundred different times in a hundred different ways, sampling the unique flavor of each until he was drunk on it.

But that would have to wait. The conversation at hand, he had a feeling, would be sobering.

At the sound of his voice, she'd turned with a start.

And now, separated by the cold black expanse of the bed, they could only stare at one another, both scarcely breathing.

* * *

**THE END**

Kidding, of course! But it should help the wait for the next chapter into perspective, no? ;)

Almost 6 years for them, and 14 chapters for us, together again at last! Let's see...Erik's got his emotions totally under control, Raoul's obviously very cool with all this, and Christine is just happy for a nice evening out. Yep, looks like everything should go real smoothly with absolutely no complications or surprises!

Next up - Chapter 15, a chapter with absolutely no complications or surprises!

A few notes:

First off, you guys are the best, you know that, right? I can't get over the thoughtful interpretations and reactions to the last chapter, and I hope I never will. It's a complete joy to know that the story has a life inside heads other than just mine. Talking and thinking about these characters is one of my very favorite things, and it's so cool to see that extended to my own versions. On that note, my ask box is open on Tumblr (@flora-gray), and I LOVE hearing your theories, and promise to only reply to any questions in a spoiler-free manner, either there or in comments here, if the mood ever strikes you. :)

Second, the biggest question on the last chapter was WHAT WAS THAT MISSING RULE? Wellllllll...it was only missing because it was a too-sneaky half-joke that I didn't write as clearly as I needed to. Haha...whoops! That last chapter went out un-betaed, so that one's totally on me. I've gone back and rewritten, so it should be clear now.

On that note, I've got a new helper! My dearest N-N is not going to be available for a while, and more eyes are always better, especially when they are as observant and perceptive as Aldebaran's. I'm telling you, I am so very lucky to have her on board, and so are you! She's helped me see what I'm trying to say when I couldn't quite figure it out, and is the evil genius responsible for the chapter ending where it did. AND she has already given you a gift that you haven't known you've received yet: her oneshot, Mercy, which can be found on this site and is inspired by The Better Man, and I'm going to say it, is required reading if you're a fan of this story. It's a beautiful scene that captures the complex relationship between Erik and Nadir. It's what I wished I would have been able to write, were there the space in this story. So please, do yourself a favor and check it out and show her some love.

Lastly, if you need something else to pass the time between updates, I have a quick little oneshot up, She Often Spoke of You, which is either one long joke or a very tragic story, depending on how you want to look at it. It was an idea I had literally 10 years ago, and finally got around to writing out. I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks again, everybody! I love and appreciate you all!


	15. Don Juan Triumphant

**Chapter 15 - Don Juan Triumphant**

She was so close.

Almost close enough to touch — but not quite.

Mere steps away, with only the empty, waiting bed between them.

Softly lit by the single oil lamp burning on the bedside table.

Her fingertips trembling at the hollow of her pale throat.

Eyes as wide and dark and unblinking as the first time he breached the distance between them, the night he slid open the false barrier of the trick mirror to extend to her a hand that was all too human. That night, her touch was hesitant, then stronger, bolder; the grip of her fingers an unspoken challenge, the warm weight of her hand clasped in his an ill-fated promise.

Now, he could almost reach out and take that hand again.

But not quite.

" _Erik..."_

His name — _his name_ — was the barest breath through her parted lips.

He clutched at the footboard of the bed, his fingers hooking around the carved edge of the worn walnut as the room shimmered in and out of focus. If her name on his lips had been as sweet and soul-warming as a sip of wine, the sound of his name on hers was like downing a whole bottle without pausing for breath. He fought to pull in enough air to slow his racing heart — he would not let himself gasp like the pitiful wretch he was.

For many moments they simply stood there, eyes locked, silent, as Erik's heart thudded on and on and on.

She was a memory made flesh, too perfect to be real, and coupled with the haziness of his vision, he had himself half-convinced that this was only one long, drawn-out, rather inventively masochistic fantasy.

But it wasn't. It was _real_.

Because there was an essential element of his fantasies which was notably missing from this scene. The one thing that made his sacrifice all worth it. The one thing that kept his pain from becoming intolerable.

In his fantasies, Christine was always, _always_ happy.

The Christine standing across from him now, however, looked very much as if she was about to cry.

Unshed tears wet her lashes, making them dark and glossy; she blinked them away as she wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched and slightly shaking. She looked so small, so fragile, and Erik was so very tempted to see what would happen if he simply went to her and gathered her into his arms, letting the body say what words could not.

He could count on one hand the number of times his arms had been around her, could recall each instance in excruciating, intoxicating detail. Each one a memory more valuable than any earthly thing.

Once had been a seduction. Once had been out of desperation. Once had been his salvation.

This time, were it to happen, would not be so easily categorized.

It would be an embrace of comfort and apology, of longing miraculously fulfilled, of the raw relief of being reunited with the one who had been an inextricable part of his soul and then had been suddenly ripped away, leaving a wound that could never heal.

An embrace of love, undemanding and unexpectant.

 _God,_ he wanted that.

And the way she looked at him now, brows drawn together in a question that hurt to even attempt to put into words, made him wonder if maybe — _maybe_ — that might be what she wanted, too.

But no, that _couldn't_ be true. How could he even think such a thing when the image of those hands twisting in her skirts was burned into his mind like a brand? A surge of sickly shame settled heavy in Erik's stomach. He _knew_ she hadn't wanted to do this, and he'd agreed anyway, letting his desperation to see her again — his incredible _selfishness_ — overpower his better judgment. No, he would not lay so much as a finger on her for any reason until he'd gotten the truth from her _._ Even if it led to confirmation of the worst of his suspicions.

Even if he lost the only chance he may have had to feel her in his arms again, just once more.

The small bronze clock on the dressing table filled the room with the urgent ticking away of this precious hour. He couldn't stall any longer.

"Why are you here?" he asked, the tightness of his throat giving his words a hard edge he hadn't intended.

Christine flinched, recoiling as sharply as if he'd broken the silence with a shout.

For a moment she simply blinked at him. And then slowly, those beautiful dark eyes, which had been so sad and subtly entreating, began hardening, narrowing with each blink until she was all but squinting at him.

A single, sharp exhale of a laugh shook her shoulders.

"Was that not made clear?" Her voice was sweet and lilting — a perfect replica of the incomparably exquisite melody which haunted his dreams...except now with an acid bite. She crossed her arms sharply across her chest.

Erik's shoulders tensed. Her reaction was unsettling, yes, but it meant he'd struck a nerve. Clearly, he was on the right path.

He shook his head. "You don't want to do this." He didn't phrase it as a question — it wasn't one, and they both knew it.

"Oh no?" She raised her eyebrows. "And how would you know what I want?"

Beads of sweat began to form beneath Erik's mask. "I— I know that much time has passed—"

"Yes, it has." Her tone was matter of fact, yet had the sting of an accusation.

Erik's mind raced — What was happening? Why did he feel on the defensive? Had he said something wrong? He'd only spoken factually, had he not?

He took a deep breath and pressed on, ignoring the twisting in his stomach.

"He said that you desperately want a baby, but...is that true? True enough to—" He paused, swallowing thickly. "To go to these lengths? I know how important it is that he have an heir…" He loosened his fingers from the footboard and took a small step back, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. "Is he forcing you?"

"No, he is _not_ ," she shot back. She raised her chin, defiant. "How dare you even ask that. You think I don't know my own mind?"

Erik's heart was pounding, but it was no longer from lovesick yearning. He paused to assess the situation.

A sensible man might back down, given the fierceness of the fire blazing in her eyes. But there was sensible and there was _right,_ and Erik had never much cared about being the former.

Because he _was_ right — he was certain of it. Despite the years, despite the distance, he _knew_ her. He knew her _soul_. Better than that boy ever did. Maybe she wasn't being forced, but there was no question that _this_ was not what she wanted. The only question that mattered right now was how to get her to admit it.

"This is _my_ choice," she continued forcefully. "I want to be a mother, more than anything."

More than... _anything?_

Erik almost laughed. Christine Daaé, the goddess with the voice of an angel, who could have conquered the continent, who could have had the world at her feet, claiming such a paltry goal as the pinnacle of her desires, as if they both didn't remember the greatness she'd been destined for. She had given up the stage for a new life as a vicometess, but certainly she had not forgotten its pull, despite the words she spoke so insistently.

But those words, it turned out, were nothing _but_ words, for as she spoke, her hands — in a final, pointed confirmation of the truth — slowly snaked down to her skirt, clutching white-knuckled fistfuls of the silk.

_Ah..._

Erik's jaw settled into a grim, yet satisfied smile.

"Really?" he asked lightly. "The girl I knew dreamt of much greater things than motherhood."

"But I'm not a girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time. Priorities change." Her tone was harsh and, to Erik's ears, quite bitter. She looked down at her hands, lost in the folds of her dress. "Dreams are for dreamers, not for those who have awoken to reality."

"I see," said Erik, stepping around the corner of the bed and moving towards her with slow, careful strides. "And is your reality that you're to be nothing but a mother and a vicomtesse?"

Her eyes snapped back up, challenging. "What's wrong with that? Orphans know better than anyone the importance of family."

Rounding the end of the bed, he took one last step, finally facing her fully where she stood, hemmed in by bed and table and wall. "But would that fulfill you?"

Bracing herself against the edge of the mattress with one clutching hand, Christine stood her ground. "Of course it would." She pulled her shoulders back into a regal posture of authority. "There's no greater calling than being a mother."

Erik did laugh then, a soft chuckle. "Is that so?" Less than an arm's length remained between them. He dropped his voice low, gently coaxing. "Has Christine Daaé forgotten who she is?"

"It's Madame de Chagny now," she said, a flush beginning to work its way up her throat.

He tipped his head in wry acknowledgement, belying the sick hot twist of his stomach.

"And Madame de Chagny, a child is the only thing she desires?"

"No, it's not," she snapped. She spun away, turning her back to him. Beneath the pearl gray bodice, the muscles of her back and shoulders were tensed and rigid. "But wanting a thing isn't enough," she said, more quietly now. "Some desires must go unfulfilled."

Erik smiled. She could lie to herself, but she couldn't fool him… and he remembered all too well how to get her to succumb to the truth of her desires. His chest swelled under his hands as he slowly smoothed them down his waistcoat.

Then, in one quick step, he closed the distance separating them — still not quite touching, but so, so very close. There was nothing but a few inches of air between them now, warmed by the heat of their bodies. Her hair, pinned up to reveal a slender white neck, smelled of lavender oil and soap and he had to try so very hard to resist the obscene urge to bury his face in it. Breathing her in, filling his lungs with her, he brought one arm around her shoulders — still not touching, never touching — and let his splayed hand hover over her heaving chest. "Must they?" he whispered. Eyes closed, her head tilted back ever so slightly, and he lowered his mouth to her ear. "Even the desire—" and swiftly contracting his fingers into a fist, pulling the undeniable, inescapable essence of who she was from her very soul, he breathed into her ear the truth she refused to acknowledge— " _to sing?"_

With a gasp, she broke free, whirling around, eyes wild. "Yes, especially that!"

Erik pulled back, looking down the sculpted nose of his mask at her. "Why, because your high society won't allow it?"

"No..." she shook her head, taking a few small, shuffling steps backward.

"Because _he_ won't allow it?" Erik sneered.

"No!" She pulled her arms across her stomach, shoulders tight. "It's nothing to do with him."

"No?" Erik stepped closer. "So he's _not_ determined to have you off the stage and confined to the nursery, using your voice for nothing but lullabies to soothe his precious heir?"

Her eyes flew to his, aflame with indignation. Lashing waves of barely suppressed fury rolled off of every line of her tensed body; Erik braced himself against the onslaught, his racing pulse sending an exhilarating rush of blood to his head. A challenge of a smile curled on his lips.

She turned her face away with a jerk. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said, very quietly. In profile, he could see the slight tremble of her small, pointed chin.

Warmth flowed through him, head to toe, trickling into his tingling hands. "Oh, I know..." Reaching out with long, lithe fingers, Erik traced in the air the contour of that trembling chin, speaking low and slow and so very _right_. "I know that Daaé or de Chagny, without music, Christine—" the fingers skimmed down her throat, not touching, no, but close enough to feel the heat of her pulse in his fingertips— "is not _Christine_."

She had not drawn a single breath of air as he spoke; now she sucked in a shuddering lungful. "That's not…" The whispered words trembled and then fell away as Erik's hand waited, ready, poised over her heart. She bit down on her quivering bottom lip, hard.

Then, suddenly, her face crumpled — and for the second time that evening, Christine looked very much like she was about to cry.

_Oh God._

Erik dropped his hand, heavy.

_What was he doing?_

He blinked, clearing away that old familiar fog, that red-tinged haze of his Phantom days, which had settled over him, unnoticed, weightless and frighteningly comfortable.

_What had he done?_

The oversharp clarity of hindsight rendered the scene so plainly that it hurt, but he couldn't shut his eyes to it: he had far too easily begun slipping into old habits, manipulating with his words, using his physical presence to draw an admission from her that she did not want to give. In the end, it seemed he was about to get his way...but it didn't feel like a victory worth celebrating. In fact, all he felt was the hollow, sickly pang of shame — still a somewhat novel feeling for him, which made the sensation all the more unpleasant.

Tears were welling in her eyes in earnest now, and once again he felt the need to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness, his lips murmuring self-flagellating apologies between reverent kisses pressed along the hem of her dress. But that was _his_ need, not hers...wasn't it? Did he know what she wanted? Had he ever known?

Christine turned to him again, and she looked so lost, so helpless, and perhaps he should have apologized, without theatrics, just simply and honestly.

Perhaps now he should ask her if it would be acceptable for him to take her into his arms.

Perhaps he should just do it anyway.

But perhaps...

Perhaps, rather than risk doing the wrong thing, it was better to do nothing at all.

Silently, Erik backed away.

Christine held his eyes as he retreated, her gaze stony but watchful. Tears hung heavy from her lashes, crystal bright against sapphire eyes so dark they looked almost black. But then, before they could fall, she shook her head, blew out a harsh sigh of a breath, and dashed them from her eyes with a decisive swipe of her balled fist.

She slumped against the bed, her hands pale and still against the black silk.

"I hadn't sung since that night, you know," she said, her voice roughened by the strain of holding back tears. "How could I?" She cut her reddened eyes to his, and Erik's heart gave an excruciatingly guilty squeeze. "But it didn't matter. I could focus on being a wife and then, someday, a mother. And that would be enough." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Maybe it would have been. But then...well..." she grimaced, her fingers digging into the bedspread. "I was so adrift, and I— I needed _something._ I thought maybe…maybe enough time had passed. I reached out to Madame Giry and…" She paused, her fingers twisting at the fabric. "And she helped connect me with a new voice teacher. A man she knows from her new position."

Erik pulled in a breath as sharp as if Christine had slapped him. Actually, he would have gladly taken a slap over the words she'd spoken; a stinging cheek was nothing compared to the hot stab of petty jealousy searing his heart.

 _His_ student, _his_ Christine, who he'd found in raw form, painstakingly shaping, cutting away facets with expert precision and polishing until she sparkled brighter than any diamond, only to be shut away in that vicomte's gilded jewelry box of a home, was now out and under a wing which did not belong to her Angel of Music? The thought was unbearable.

"He came very highly recommended," Christine continued in a rush, "with impressive credentials. I was lucky to be able to engage him. And he _has_ been a good teacher, but..."

' _But…'?_

Erik clamped his lips against the nasty, spiteful — and yes, completely unreasonable — words which were sharp on his tongue.

But….no teacher was good enough for Christine, and certainly not some commonplace tutor, likely some lecherous old man with credentials not worth the paper they were printed on, no matter how highly he came recommended by Giry, that duplicitous schemer. _That_ was the only correct end to that statement.

He ground his teeth, the painful friction oddly satisfying. These feelings were unfair, he knew, but that didn't make them any less potent. Still, they were feelings he would never dare let her see, so he set his face blank and mask-smooth, while inside, he seethed away, silently.

Her eyes snapped back to his, wide and pleading. "Raoul doesn't know. I didn't tell him — I _couldn't,_ not right away." She sat up straighter, her voice firm despite the insistent, fluttery gesturing of her hands. "But I never lied to him! I _never_ would. If it was a sin, it was a sin of omission. I was always going to tell him, but it's a bit of a…" she bit her lip, "- a touchy subject. I had to find out for myself first if— if I even..." She looked away, her shoulders going slack.

"But then later, when I did try to tell him, I...couldn't. Sometimes the words wouldn't come, and other times, he cut me off and I just let it drop. But I'm glad I never said anything, because..." She was silent a moment, chewing her bottom lip, a subtle, but clearly growing tension in her body causing Erik's breath to catch in his chest. "I— I _can_ sing, it's just…" She paused, then inhaled deeply and glanced up at him through her lashes. "I suppose I don't have the voice I once did."

The sear of jealousy had cooled, leaving behind raw, numbing cold. Erik considered the evidence before him: the bitten lip and the tearful confession, the desperate clutching of the bedding and the darting eyes. He had sought proof that Christine hadn't wanted to go along with this plan, and, well, he had certainly gotten it. Now his stomach was lurching, sour and queasy, and he had to resist the urge to double over.

Confirmation after confirmation was springing up in his mind so quickly it made his head spin, and he staggered slightly, unsteady on his feet.

It was all true. She didn't want this, she didn't want any of this. She didn't even _want_ a child — she wanted to sing. And if not for the fact that she was struggling, she would have been back up on stage right now, not in the dark, lonely cellars beneath it, trapped again in the lair of the monster responsible for the loss of her career, and now, apparently, her voice, thanks to his selfish, destructive obsession.

She was watching him closely, her hands clasped over her chest, an expectant tilt to her brows. She must, Erik assumed, be waiting for him to come to terms with the truth and release her from this farce. And he would, of course, but first he needed a minute to think, to get the situation — to get himself — under control.

What he should have said — what he _wanted_ to say —- was "I need a moment", or, even better, "I'm sorry". But for some incomprehensible reason, what he _did_ say, in a tone as flat and impenetrable as his carefully cultivated expression, was a cool, clipped...

" _I see."_

And then, afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep that expression impenetrable for even a moment longer, he turned from her, his shoulders squared, a shield against the uncertainty filling the space between them.

His head was pounding, filling with thudding, insistent waves of self-loathing.

_She didn't want to be here._

_She didn't want him._

He'd known in his heart that she would never have been willing to subject herself to him, so this knowledge was hardly a surprise, but the incomparably cruel clarity of reality still managed to shock. At least he had gotten to the truth without allowing himself to be humiliated, or to show real vulnerability; it was the only reason he was still standing.

But he still didn't understand. Why had she agreed at all? Why let it get to this point? It didn't make sense.

The thoughts swirled within his head, beating against his skull hard enough to crack bone. It was so consuming that he ignored the long, harsh sigh which came from behind him.

So consuming that he almost didn't register the rustling of silk against silk.

Almost — but not quite.

Erik spun around, his heart thudding to a stop.

"What are you doing?"

Christine paused in her attempt to hoist herself up on the high, overstuffed mattress, her skirts hitched up to reveal small stockinged feet, shoes discarded nearby on the faded carpet. She gestured to the clock with a flick of her hand.

"It's been half an hour already," she said flatly. "We need to get started."

"What?" A jolt of icy cold rushed through Erik's body, stealing his breath. "Wait… You don't mean you actually intend to…" Uncertain of what to do with them, his hands twitched and twisted awkwardly at his sides. "You were just saying you want to sing."

"Yes, I do, but…" she shrugged her shoulders in a tense little jerk. "Besides, I did say I wanted to be a mother, didn't I?"

Erik blinked, his face going slack.

Christine arched an eyebrow. "I am capable of wanting more than one thing, you realize," she said, in a tone which sounded very much like she were speaking to a child — and not a particularly bright one. For a long moment she looked at him, her lips pressed tight, as he stared back dumbly, then finally, shaking her head, she turned from him and resumed her struggle with the mattress.

Pausing, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Do you think you could manage to help me up?" she asked curtly. "It's difficult in this skirt."

No. _No._ This didn't make sense — this shouldn't be happening. He'd been so certain.

But as he stood there like a stunned, useless idiot, she'd at last made it onto the bed, and was now settling herself against the pillows, her skirts bunched up around her knees. A tight swallow burned its way down his dry throat, and he tore his eyes away before the sight of the delicate curve of her leg disappearing into the layers of skirts began to affect his body as strongly as it was affecting his mind.

"But certainly _this_ is not what you want," he insisted, perhaps more for his benefit than for hers. He was shaking his head, his feet carrying him away from her, far enough to make the horrible temptation to reach out and glide his fingertips over that delicious curve impossible to act upon. "Not like this."

Christine crossed her arms over her stomach. "No, this isn't exactly how I want it to be, but we don't all get things exactly how we'd like, do we?" With a sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut, and it was finally then that Erik could see the passage of time on her face, in the slight creases around her eyes and between her brows. "But we both knew what we were agreeing to, so could you please just turn off the light and come over here?"

Then, abruptly, in a flurry of petticoats, she rolled away from him onto her side, leaving him staring at her back.

As wrong as it felt in that moment, Erik couldn't resist letting his hungry eyes drink her in, from the piles of pinned-up curls, down the pale swoop of her neck to the sharp angle of her shoulder, plummeting down to the nipped-in curve of her waist, swiftly followed by the dizzying rise of her hip, all the way down to her little toes, tensed and curled in their fine woolen stockings.

No fire burned in the small hearth, but the room was suddenly stifling. Erik ran a finger inside his collar, loosening the tightly knotted cravat ever so slightly, almost gasping at the feeling of cool air on the overheated skin of his throat. He blinked, testing reality, trying in vain to make sense of the fact that his most secret, most shameful dream was somehow now playing out in front of him: Christine Daaé reclining on a bed, his for the taking—

Erik's heart dropped into his stomach like a cold lead weight.

That was just the thing, wasn't it?

He didn't want to _take_.

The heady rush of blood which had been pulsing through him slowed to a sickening trickle. She might technically be willing but she clearly didn't _want_ to. Not here and now.

Although...if he were to be perfectly rational, she likely never _would_ want to. Not truly. The only physical intimacy they had shared, kisses that had meant everything to him — that had changed everything for him — had been given out of desperation, not want. So how could he hope to resist the temptation laid before him, to be allowed to experience the joys of the flesh, flesh which belonged to the one woman he desired more than anything, knowing full well that he wouldn't get another chance?

But just her flesh was not enough. It had never been enough. He'd rather have nothing at all than the grudging allowance of a quick one-sided slaking of his lust. He'd managed this long, hadn't he?

" _Erik—"_ Christine's voice, strained to the point of breaking, interrupted the torrent of his tormented thoughts. "Are we going to do this or not?"

Once more he let his eyes drift over her, as his heart pounded hollowly in his chest.

_No._

_No, he can't do this._

_He won't._

_This_ — an indifferent, mechanical coupling, a loveless encounter with the woman he loved — is not something he is sure he is even capable of, and if he hadn't been so willfully ignorant he would have been able to admit that to himself from the start. But he'd forged ahead with this stupidity, thinking only of getting to be in her presence again, not truly believing it would ever come to this.

 _Ah God,_ what had he gotten himself into?

And all at once, he saw this whole thing clearly, for what it was, but also for what he absolutely would not allow it to be: A second Don Juan Triumphant — a ludicrous plot schemed up by two men, blinded by the need to possess this woman, foisted upon her in a short-sighted effort to achieve their own goals, damn the cost to her. To all of them.

But how could he extricate her — and himself — from this mess?

Perhaps…

"Yes, yes, of course," he said quickly. "But, I'm wondering…"

Perhaps there was something else he could do for her instead. Something he should have thought of right away, rather than filling his head with unjust jealousy and indulgent self-disgust.

Christine turned, squinting over her shoulder at him.

He ran his hands over his lapels, smoothing and straightening, and took a deep breath. "You want a child, very much. I understand. And I've promised to— to try to help with that. But…" He took a step closer. "You also want to sing." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Can I not help with that too?"

She said nothing in response, but her glare softened into what looked to him like guarded interest.

"You say your voice is not what it once was, but I could restore it," Erik pressed on, with a proud lift of his chin. "Would you allow me to try?"

Christine pulled herself up to sit amongst the tumbled pillows and fixed him with a skeptical look. "That's not possible. I know the rules, and I won't break them: _No singing._ " Slowly though, her fingers began to twine themselves into the rumpled pleats of her skirt.

"Ah," said Erik, a new lightness in his chest urging him on, "but the rule is that _I_ can't sing. He said nothing about you."

That was a little detail the vicomte had missed — more proof that the boy didn't understand her soul. And it was far from the only missed detail...

"And I've promised not to play the 'piano, or organ, or whatever that thing is,'" Erik said, pulling his tone back from the edge of mockery at the very last second, "but he didn't include, say, the violin I have locked up just across the hall, which would provide excellent accompaniment."

With a furrowed brow, Christine opened her mouth as if she would speak...but closed it again without a word, pressing her lips tight.

"It could be a trial. A month. Just to see. And if at the end, you're certain that music is no longer a possibility for you, then we can, ah," he tugged at his cuff, "focus on fulfilling the other goal."

Christine's hands went to her lap, her fingers finding the thin band of gold, twisting it absently as she chewed at her bottom lip.

"I won't lie to him…"

"You won't have to," Erik replied quickly. "He won't ask details, I specifically requested that he not." He caught her eye and he gave her a meaningful look. "If it's a sin, it's a sin of omission…"

Her fingers continued to work at the ring a moment longer, then, as Erik held his breath, those fingers trailed lightly over her breastbone and up to her throat, resting on delicate skin there, just above the rhythm of her pulse. She raised her eyes to his.

Despite the tightness around her mouth, a smile was twitching on her lips. Shifting herself on the bed, to Erik's great relief — and maybe just a twinge of guilty disappointment — she tucked her legs under her skirts and sat up straight. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, I'd like that."

Erik released his breath in a long, silent stream. Suppressing the smile he could feel forming on his own lips, he sealed their agreement with a nod.

The air in the room had shifted. The tremulous uncertainty, the crackling energy, had gone out, leaving an odd sort of uneasy peace. There was still more time to fill before they made their journey back to the surface; now, at last, with fear and shame and so many other emotions no longer clouding his vision, Erik turned to Christine.

There was so much he longed to say, so much he wished to know. How many nights had he lain awake, trying to push the questions from his mind that he knew he would never get answers to?

He hesitated a moment, uncertain of the propriety, before perching himself gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Christine drew her hands to her lap, where they rested small and still against the gathered silk.

Erik cleared his throat. "Has he treated you well?"

"Yes."

"Are you happy?" he asked stiffly.

There was a pause before she answered, the words measured. "I have been."

Unsatisfied, Erik cocked his head. "But now?"

"I think I will be," she said softly. And then she looked up at him, the soft curve of her lips pulling ever so slightly into a smile and Erik lost all ability to speak or think or even breathe.

Then, suddenly — and not a moment too soon — her face fell. "Have you really been right here, this whole time?" Her brows were drawn together and her eyes looked— No. He wouldn't even try to guess at the feelings he thought he saw there.

"Not the whole time, no." Erik wasn't sure if he should elaborate, but something told him this wasn't the time.

She nodded. "And you?" Her eyes drifted down to her folded hands. "Have you been...happy?"

He swallowed. "I…"

What could he say? Such a complicated answer to such a simple question. But then her eyes were on his again, and this time there was no denying it. The emotion there was written plain: a plea, a desperate need to be absolved of guilt. An assurance that when she'd left, she'd not left him completely broken.

That he would gladly provide.

"Yes," he answered simply. And it was close enough to the truth.

She fixed her eyes on his, and he could have sworn he saw a challenge there. "And now?"

Erik inhaled sharply.

His own question, echoed back to him by the woman responsible for almost every bit of real happiness he'd ever known, those dark, guarded eyes asking a question he could not even begin to know how to answer.

The words would not come.

A sad smile curved her lips and she nodded, in what felt like understanding.

And just like that, all too soon, their time was up.

Christine slid off the bed before Erik could even offer his hand in assistance, and went to stand before the mirrored vanity, her hand poised over the draped fabric.

She glanced at him, asking permission with her eyes. Erik nodded, and she tugged off the cover. In the reflection of the dusty mirror, he watched as she pinched color into her cheeks and artfully rumpled her dress.

"Do I look convincing enough?" she asked timidly, turning to him.

In the space of a moment, she had transformed — a shy actress with wide, uncertain eyes, costumed as his furtive lover, one who in reality he had not so much as touched. She'd never looked more heart-breakingly beautiful.

Tentatively he reached out, his hand skimming her cheek, still not touching, his tingling fingertips hesitating just over the pulse point behind the soft edge of her jaw, deciding. Gently, he pinched a single curl between his fingers and tugged it from behind her ear, letting it fall loose.

"You look perfect," he said, and to his surprise and relief, his voice didn't break at all.

…

They walked in silence to the boat. At the dock, the candlelight was dim, but not so dim that Erik couldn't see Christine's hesitation as she reached to take his offered hand at the top of the steps. Her fingers hovered for a moment, curling in, and Erik glanced up from their hands to see her eyes fixed on his ring — the ring he'd not taken off since the night she'd pressed it into his palm before turning and fleeing toward her life in the sun.

He tensed, fighting the urge to pull his hand under his cloak, concealing that band of silver and onyx which suddenly felt like a still-beating piece of his heart displayed on his finger.

He thought maybe he should say something, but before he could find the right words — or any at all, really — her voice broke through the weighted stillness.

"Erik…" She still wasn't looking at him, but the beginning of a small, shy smile was blooming on her lips. "I really am happy to see you again."

The words hit him square in the chest, the impact stopping his heart momentarily before it skittered back to life, though if it hadn't started back up and instead he'd dropped dead right where he stood, he would not have been the least bit surprised.

Then their eyes locked, and with breath-stealing certainty, Erik understood, truly and deeply, that he very well may not survive this drama. However, he could hardly blame anyone else if he did not — he had placed the knife in her hand himself. But he would gladly hand over his heart, it had always been hers to carve up at will.

It wasn't as if he was using it, anyway.

She smiled at him, and then her hand was in his, hesitant, then stronger, bolder; the grip of her fingers an unspoken challenge, the warm weight of her hand clasped in his a…

Well, for now, her hand was in his, and that's all that mattered.

* * *

_Noooooo Raoul! Could it be that the man who was spotted with Mme Giry and your wife was only a...music teacher? And rather than ASKING her about it, you made a series of very questionable decisions that delivered her right back to...the worst possible choice of a music teacher?? See, this is exactly why communication within a marriage is so important. Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Eh....that's probably a no. :)_

_Thank you for your patience with this one! It was such an important, pivotal chapter, and I wanted to make sure I did it justice! And I never would have without the help of Aldebaran, who provided the most invaluable feedback. Thank you so much, you! And if you haven't yet, you MUST go read her stuff. Start with Within, I promise you'll love it! (Also, Mercy is basically required reading, as it features these versions of the characters and does them more justice than is even deserved.)_

_Thank you also for the most INCREDIBLE comments and discussion and questions about this story. It is absolutely so fun to hear all your feedback, and you all are the BEST._

_Up next in Chapter 16: What was Raoul up to during this date? Just enjoying a book and a nice cup of coffee and vibing, right? Yep, sounds right. :)_

_Thank you thank you thank you, all!_

_xo Flora_


	16. A Lovely Evening

**Chapter 16 — A Lovely Evening**

Raoul was fine.

Everything was fine.

Really, the worst thing about the evening was that it was rather boring to simply sit and wait. Next time he would have to remember to bring a book.

He flagged down a passing waiter and gestured to his cup.

"Another, sir?" the young man asked, an eyebrow raised incredulously.

Raoul looked down at the oil-slicked dregs of coffee swirling in the bottom of the cup. It hadn't been _that_ many, had it?

He tipped back the remainder and nodded his assent. He'd regret this tomorrow, but tomorrow was a long way off, long enough that he needn't worry about it now. There was much more of tonight to get through. He still had another— actually Raoul wasn't exactly sure how much longer he needed to wait. Listening for the chime of the bells marking every quarter hour was all the time-keeping he needed; a pocket watch ticking away on the table next to him was excessive, and much too precise. It was better to keep things a bit vague.

Right away, Raoul had found that watching the inexorable march of the minute hand served no purpose other than to prompt mental calculations which were good for nothing but turning his stomach. There was nothing to be gained by working out when, exactly, _it_ would happen. As everyone knows, the anticipation is the worst part of an unpleasant event. With his pocket watch put away, he could clear his mind and wait for the clock to strike a quarter till ten, signalling that it was time for him to go, and he could be confident the thing had happened, no going back, what was done was done, and at that point, it wouldn't do him any good to be upset about it.

That strategy worked well enough, at first. But as he had begun to light up his third cigarette, the clock had struck half past, and a jolt of blind panic surged through him, causing the flame to shiver and bob as he attempted to set the tip alight. The thick, bitter coffee churned in his stomach, and he had to fight against the urge to retch. And another fifteen minutes had still remained!

No, it wouldn't do at all.

And so Raoul had come up with a solution: for the time being, he would simply pretend that rather than the actual thing, his wife was off doing something quite different in that house by the lake...perhaps having tea and catching up with her former mentor, as any old friends might.

It wasn't denial if it was intentional.

Now, the waiter reappeared and replaced Raoul's cup with a fresh one, steam curling in the bitingly chill night air. Without pause, Raoul swallowed it down, letting it blister a path down his throat that would likely sting for hours.

No, he wasn't in denial — he was denying nothing. He'd made a plan, and a very good one at that. When all was said and done, he'd have his wife, he'd have his heir, everything would be just fine, and he could forget all about what had to happen to achieve all of that. He was simply getting a head start on the forgetting, that was all.

Thanks to the new scenario he'd concocted, Raoul had been able to relax. It was a little boring, yes, but otherwise he was quite enjoying his solo trip to the bistro. From his seat on the patio, he could enjoy one of the last nights of the late fall, before the weather turned too cold to sit outside, and bask in the unrivaled beauty of the City of Lights. The coffee was good, the scenery was splendid, and he sincerely hoped Christine was having a lovely time with her friend.

A sudden sear of pain at his fingertips made Raoul wince. He blinked at the cigarette clutched between his fingers — he'd somehow managed to smoke it down to the very end. Laughing at absentmindedness, he stubbed it out and added it to the pile overflowing from the ashtray, and then withdrew another from the silver case.

He struck a match, cupped it in his hand, brought it carefully to the tip of the cigarette clenched in his teeth — and jumped, hard, at the clang of the big bronze bell.

The match dropped to the table, extinguishing with a hiss. Raoul swallowed. His throat felt as though it had been coated in sand. He glanced at his empty coffee cup, longing for just one more to ease his dry throat, but it was too late. It was time to go.

It took three tries for Raoul to get the cigarette back in the case, his jittery fingers fumbling with the slender cylinder. Maybe it really _had_ been too much coffee.

He stood, smoothing his jacket, and tossed a handful of francs on to the table. He wasn't sure how many, exactly, but far more than enough; it only seemed appropriate as a thank you to the waiter for such a lovely evening.

And now he would collect his darling wife from her visit with her friend and they'd discuss the changing weather on the way home and then retire to bed where they would sleep sweetly snuggled together, as always, and in the morning, there'd be no reason to even remember such an ordinary event as tea with a friend.

Yes, yes — everything would be fine.

**...**

Raoul's pocket watch was in his hand, the burnished gold now as warm as the sweating palm it was clutched in. He couldn't decide — how long, exactly, should he wait past the appointed time before heading underground to retrieve his wife? Three minutes? Four? Certainly not more than five.

Not that the time had even come yet — actually, several minutes still remained — but it was good to be prepared.

Although, all this planning was really quite unnecessary. Of course she was in no danger of not coming back when she should, Raoul would never do anything that would put Christine at risk. True, there had been the time with that whole Don Juan Triumphant fiasco, but his plan had been solid; he simply could not have foreseen the depths that the other man was willing— Raoul's sharp bark of a laugh echoed down the alley. Ridiculous! What was he doing? What a silly thing to be thinking about, letting himself be drawn into unpleasant memories of a past which had no bearing at all upon the present.

Something cold and sharp-cornered was biting into the flesh of Raoul's other hand; he looked down to see that he was gripping his cigarette case, fingers curved around the edges like claws. He placed it back in his pocket and ran his hand through his hair with a laugh. He couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking, reaching for it like that — he never smoked in front of Christine! Though she now seemed to ignore the smell of smoke on him, were she to catch him with a lit cigarette, he imagined he would never hear the end of it.

Fastening the last buttons at the collar of his coat, Raoul huddled into himself. The temperature was dropping, and hiding in the shadows pressed close to a cold stone building wasn't helping matters. He'd catch a chill if he waited too long. Better make it no more than three minutes past, just in case.

In the end, though, he'd been right: it was unnecessary. Two minutes before ten, the gate creaked open, and Christine appeared in the mouth of the passage, her eyes scanning the street. Catching sight of her waiting husband, she glanced over her shoulder with a quick nod. For a wild, heart-stopping moment, Raoul thought he could see a flash of white and swirl of black retreating into the shadows, before he realized that it was obviously just a trick of the light. His stomach lurched as he darted forward to assist her, the acrid tang of coffee rising up his throat — though what did he expect, sprinting like that with a full carafe's worth of the stuff sitting heavy in his stomach. Then, at last, his wife's hand was back in his, and he pulled her away from the building, closing the gate behind her, his heart lightening with each step, his lips pressed to the back of her hand to stop their joyful trembling.

Surreptitiously, Raoul swept his eyes over Christine, noticing the slight disorder of her skirts, something hardly worth noting at all, given that it was so easily explained by the difficult journey she'd just undertaken. In the thin light of the streetlamps, her face looked even more pale than usual, her lips pressed flat and bloodless, though a spot of deep pink colored each cheek, like cherries in a bowl of cream, the color deepening and spreading as she noticed Raoul's eyes upon her. He tightened his hand reassuringly around hers. But then she turned her face away, and with his pulse thudding hollowly in his head, Raoul noticed, behind her ear, a stray lock of hair, a single curl somehow fallen free from her carefully styled hair, and it was becoming exceedingly difficult to convince himself that what had taken place over the last hour was anything other than what it really had been. But it didn't matter. Just because it happened didn't mean they had to acknowledge that it had, not when he could push the truth down just as he'd pushed down so many uncomfortable, inconvenient things. And so his hands were reaching, pulling that curl back up to the place it belonged and securing it on a pin, nice and tight, so there would be no chance of it coming loose again.

"Well, darling," Raoul said, clearing his throat, "the carriage is waiting. Shall we?" He took her by the elbow and guided her toward the street. "It's getting quite cold, don't you think? Winter's just around the corner. Perhaps you'd better wear an extra layer next time."

**…**

He didn't want to be the one to suggest it — not only because it would mean having to acknowledge what had happened, but because it seemed an insensitive thing to do, even if it was a reasonable request — so Raoul was quite relieved when Christine announced that she was going to take a bath before coming to bed.

Minutes later, she emerged from her dressing room in her robe, brushing past him with eyes averted. The sound of water banging to life in the pipes prickled Raoul's skin, and he was _fine,_ but all the same he found his feet moving, shuffling about the bedroom, uncertain of where to go and what to do, with only a vague sense that he needed to be doing _something_. Blinking, he looked up to find himself in Christine's dressing room, standing before the pile of silk and lace draped over the chair. With numb fingers, he gathered up the discarded dress and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of Christine's perfume, that delicate mist of lavender — but mingled with it was another scent too, the stale smell of damp and dust, that smell which clung to fabric and hair and skin after being swallowed up by the cellars beneath the opera, just as he expected, just as he himself likely smelled. But then he inhaled again and there was something else — a subtle soft, spicy scent, like sandalwood — and with that fetid, fragrant breath still burning in his lungs, all at once the contents of Raoul's stomach were in his throat, in his mouth. He flung the dress away and with just seconds to spare, he managed to find an empty vase, and into it he heaved and heaved and heaved until there was nothing at all left within him.

When he was finally finished, he swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, laughing shakily. Well, he supposed he would have to admit it: maybe it was possible that he wasn't quite as fine as he'd thought.

**...**

Raoul was waiting on the edge of the bed in his nightclothes when Christine returned, skin scrubbed to a glowing pink; he leapt to his feet as she approached. She paused in front of him, arms drawn around her waist, apparently waiting for him to make the first move. The right thing to do, he knew, was to take her into his arms, and that was just what he'd planned to do...but for some reason he had no answer for, at the last second, he instead clasped her on the shoulders, planted a swift kiss on her cheek, and then stood aside and waited for her to climb into bed.

The walk around to his side could have been completed a touch more quickly, but he needed the time to berate himself for what he'd just done. It was wrong, he was handling all of this wrong, and yet, when he took his place beside her, he found himself staring up at the ceiling, the sensation of her eyes on him sending his bare feet squirming beneath the sheets.

"Raoul…"

The way she said his name sounded like a recrimination, and he deserved that, but still, he couldn't look at her. And then it hit him, the words she'd spoken the night he'd presented his plan ringing in his ears as clearly as if she'd just spoken them, his cheeks burning hot from the shameful realization that he was doing precisely what he promised he would not. " _You really think you'd be able to look at me the same way after such a thing?"_ she'd asked, and he'd sworn up and down there would be no reason to doubt him, yet here he was, not looking at her at all.

Guilty tears pricked his eyes as he finally turned to her; he tried to blink them away before she could see.

It was a futile effort. One look at her face, at the deeply etched lines of worry and apology, brought the tears springing right back, mercifully blurring his vision so that he no longer had to wonder how he could possibly stand to see her look at him as if she'd done wrong and needed his forgiveness, when all of this was _his_ doing, when all along he'd been the one pushing her to agree, when she'd done nothing he hadn't insisted upon. No, he was the one who should be seeking forgiveness. He'd behaved like an absolute heel, letting his own feelings of discomfort get in the way of what she needed from him. He'd been making this all about himself, had thought only of himself. He would do better.

Breaching the distance between them with his outstretched hand, he ran the backs of his fingers over her burning cheek. He could feel her soften under his hand, and she smiled back at him, uncertain and waiting.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, so much he needed to know, needed to be reassured of. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. The promise he'd made was to her and to himself as much as to Erik — he would not pry.

"Did you feel safe and—" Raoul cleared his throat, "comfortable at all times?"

Christine held his eyes as she answered. "Yes."

"And were you treated with respect?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice unwavering.

Raoul nodded, his lips pressed shut. He'd asked his two questions, and it was best that he not give himself the opportunity to keep speaking; he'd learned well enough that his mouth could sometimes run away from him, spouting things he'd never meant to say, asking questions he didn't want answered.

"Are you alright? Is this going to be alright?" Christine's fingers were twining through his, holding tight, her eyes serious and searching. "You only need to say the word and we can end this right now."

But no words were necessary. Now, he truly _was_ alright. And so, wordlessly, he opened his arms to her and she folded herself into his embrace; he held her there, safe and protected, loved and cherished.

Pressed against the heat and softness of her, he felt his body quickly begin to respond, the intensity of his desire shocking him. The last thing he expected was that he would want to be intimate at this moment, but also, it made perfect sense, didn't it? And so when he kissed her and she responded with exceptional hunger, within moments he was on her and in her, and it felt so right because she was _his_ and he was hers, and it was surprisingly easy to forget everything as she clung to him, their bodies fitting together as perfectly as they always had.

The coupling felt like a relief, like a new beginning, and if he was crying, it was only because he was so happy that everything really was going to be just fine.

* * *

Hello hello! I really know how to give the people what they want, no? First, avoid a possible E/C sex scene, and then, after a month-long wait, follow it up with Raoul chain smoking, vomiting, and getting laid. No need to thank me; I live to serve. 

Thank you again to Aldebaran for being my first, amazingly insightful reader!

Up next: Erik and Christine hang out, and honestly it's gonna be pretty lowkey, since it's not like they have an awkward pretext for meeting up or any complicated history to be addressed or anything. 

Thanks as always for all of your thoughtful feedback! I still owe replies to many messages; this last month was really A LOT so I'm behind on everything, but things are settling down now again. I appreciate each and every one of you! You're the best!

Oh! I can't believe I forgot to share this! Please, feast your eyes and glut your soul on this incredible cover art by the incredible lebzpel (check them out on Tumblr, I'm a huge fan). I could not love it more.

xo Flora


	17. Interlude

**Chapter 17 - Interlude**

Erik hadn’t even said goodbye to Christine. 

At the Rue Scribe gate, their clasped hands pulled apart, suddenly severing all connection, and Erik watched silently as she left with her boy. He didn’t feel sad or jealous or anything at all, really, apart from slightly disoriented and somewhat detached, like he’d woken from a dream that felt too solid to be made of fantasy, but nevertheless vanished into nothingness at the reluctant opening of his eyes. 

It was a quiet journey back underground. As he gripped the pole and shoved off into the dark waters of his lake, he noticed that his hand felt strange, uncomfortably cold, and no amount of flexing his fingers or rubbing his hands together could change that. It was likely, he suspected, that it would stay that way until next time that hand was no longer empty. 

Once he was again enclosed in his home, Erik paced for a good half hour, trying to make sense out of the utterly nonsensical past hour. It was an exercise in futility. During the entire lead up to this night, he’d been so focused on the possibility of getting to see Christine again that he’d given no consideration to what it would mean if it happened — what it might mean she wanted, what it meant she was potentially willing to do. 

Figuring out what she wanted, that had been easy; the minute she’d said the words _“more than anything,”_ he knew she was only parroting the boy’s wishes, had suppressed her own, true wants and convinced herself that she wanted what she’d been told she wanted — it was simple enough to remind her of what that _really_ was. His methods might have been regrettable, but it had been for the best in the end.

The part that Erik could not seem to make sense of was why she would have agreed to the plan if she was not, in fact, as desperate for a child as the vicomte had insisted. Yes, it was possible she might _also_ want a child, as she’d said, but certainly not more than music, and certainly not enough to stoop _this_ low. 

How could he focus on logic and sense, though, when his thoughts kept snapping back to that moment just before she placed her hand in his, when she had said in a voice that was rich with unbearable tenderness — he was certain of it, it wasn’t just colored by his wishful thinking — that she was happy to see him. _Happy!_ It was yet another thing that didn’t make sense, not after what he’d done to her, not after after all he’d put her through, but it truly seemed to be genuine, hadn’t it? Why would she have said it if she didn’t mean it? 

Even so, what was it good for? Nothing would come of this, and that was fine, that was as it should be. It was as he’d always expected. And really, why bother trying to make sense of it all when he could simply enjoy the sensation growing in his chest, a warmth which had been absent for so long, a dormant flame now burning steadily — not just hope, but _feeling_ . He felt _alive_ again! For so many years, he now realized keenly, he had been like an automaton, going through the motions of living, but without the spark of wanting and needing and feeling that separates machine from man. But already, in her absence, he could feel it fading, and in that need to be near her again, he found himself opening the door to the room where she had been.

The bed now seemed unreasonably to dominate the space, and his eyes were drawn immediately to the rumpled silk, the slight depression made by the contours of her body — the only proof she'd been there. 

Preparing this room, preparing the bed, that was all play acting, for show, it was never meant to be used. Obviously, he never expected, never had any intention... He only wanted to _see_ her, be near her. But, unbelievably, regardless of how much or little she actually did want a child, she _had_ seemed like she was prepared to see the plan through to its conclusion. And against all reason, she had lain upon that bed, and there had been a moment where maybe....maybe… 

Sweat trickled down Erik’s back between his shoulder blades. How was it that this room was always so hot? He slipped off his tailcoat and tossed it on the foot of the bed. There was no chance he would be sleeping tonight, but his body felt so drained that he could hardly stand. Perhaps he could just lie down for a bit… 

He hesitated just a moment, the skin along the back of his neck prickling, as though someone was watching over his shoulder and passing judgment, but he shrugged the feeling away, slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the bed alongside Christine’s absent form.

The scent of her still clung to the pillows. He thought again of his face pressed close to her hair, of the clean, floral fragrance she wore, mixed with that which was uniquely her, and he needed more of it, needed to capture it in his lungs and never let go. He ripped off his mask and buried his face in the bedding, the silk cool against his heated face. It still felt entirely unreal that she had been here again after all these years, but now, with the ghost of her lingering in scent and in memory, he had only to close his eyes and breathe in that scent, and he could will her back into existence. And lying there with his body so near the place where she had so recently been, though he was a tangle of emotions and feelings, at the moment, the one he could feel most acutely was desire. 

She would have never… He would have never... But in his mind he could still see the delicate arch of her foot, that soft curve of her calf, the layers of petticoats piled around her knees, and his fingers ached to skim along the line of her leg, to burrow beneath the cotton and lace and keep reaching until his hand could go no further. But she hadn’t wanted that, and so neither did he. Though that didn't stop his body from responding now in the most shameful of ways.

At the edge of awareness lingered sobering reality, but couldn’t he just ride the high for the moment? There was no harm in indulging, in following the train of what-ifs until the question was what if she had reached for him, insisted he join her on the bed, and taken him in her hand, just as he now took himself in his own hand, eyes shut tight.

Oh god, what he was doing was disgusting, _he_ was disgusting...and yet, it did not stop him. He’d restrained himself for so long. Even with all the talk of rules about touching and removing clothing and acts which would lead to— to something too overwhelming to acknowledge, he never let those alluring, indecent thoughts carry him to this point. Using her image in this way, the memory of her, that was strictly off limits. But now, he can no longer resist. He cannot touch her, he will never touch her, and yet it felt as if he might die if he does not. 

So, with a great deal of guilt — though not enough to stop, apparently — he thought of the little hollow at the back of her milk white neck, the sweet, silken curls there, the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist, letting his memory bring her to life in the empty space next to him. The sound of her sighs echoed in his mind, his self-indulgent imagination transforming them from irritation to desire. From the depths of his mind, too, he brought forth that life-changing moment — the first and last kiss he’d ever received. It was all still there, intact, unlocked from his memories: the heat and the taste of her, the warm pressure of arms around his neck. No, it wasn’t the type of kiss he wanted to be thinking about right now, not when he had to pretend he didn’t remember the salty taste of her tears, remember that it had taken place before the horrified eyes of a boy strung up in a noose, but it was the only kiss he’d had and _god_ , he was so alone and so repressed and so _impossibly_ aroused! 

Distantly, he heard himself nearly sobbing her name, those two forbidden syllables which he hadn’t allowed himself to say in all these years, now falling from his disgusting lips repetitively, compulsively, as he pushed into his guilty fist. What he was doing was only more proof that he was a foul, vulgar creature, yet at the same time, he felt elevated to the heavens — and this after only an hour in her presence. It didn’t make sense that he could feel both ways at once, but it was what she’d always inspired in him. 

But she...she was probably already home and in bed with her husband, while he was underground, alone with only her memory and the faint scent of her perfume. There was no warm body next to his in the cold, empty bed. There never had been, and never would be — only his own grasping hand and the willful delusion that the hand was hers. His heart was pumping as fast as his fist and yes, it felt like an unbearably ugly betrayal, and no, no, he wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye next time, but dear god, it had been such a long, lonely life, hadn’t it? Didn’t he deserve this one small pleasure, this one transgression he had not indulged in for so long, not since he’d banished her image from his mind? And so he shoved away every other disobliging thought and focused on the memory of her smooth skin and beating heart and her lips pulling into a smile and _ah god_ — that’s what does it. Shameful spasms rocked through his body and the last thought in his head before he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep was the wry realization that, actually, the painstakingly made bed did end up getting some use, after all. 

**_…_ **

When he woke the next morning, Erik surveyed the scene with the bleary, regretful eyes of a man who had overindulged in his vices. And now, with no more of the drug of lust running through his veins, he was left with nothing but shame, and the penitent promise that it would be the last time.

But this would be no empty promise.

Studiously keeping his eyes trained on the faded flowers which climbed the wallpaper, open petals and outstretched leaves reaching for the nonexistent sky, Erik gathered the bedding into a bundle, removing all lingering traces of her, as well as the evidence of his transgression. He would keep himself under strict control from now on. He had let his feelings get away from him, just this once. But never again. He would focus on making it through this month of meetings, on helping Christine find her voice, and restoring it to its full glory.

And then he would let her go. Again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyy I'm back! I had a chapter half-done when I realized that this little transition needed to happen, so here you go! I know many were disappointed that instead of Erik, Raoul is the one who got some action, so now it's Erik's turn! This is what you meant, right? Did I get it right this time? 
> 
> BTW, if you would like to read about Erik getting some (dubiously deserved) action, then you can check out my pair of Christmas fics, The Gift Exchange and The Gift Aftermath. It's not super explicit, but it is full of all the angst and confused emotions you could want. 
> 
> Up next in Chapter 18: Erik is truthful and forthcoming with Nadir and makes some very good decisions on how to handle his feelings with Christine. 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there, everyone, and thank you so much for all the support and encouragement and insightful, much-too-kind words! (And I do promise I will reply in written words, and not just in my heart.) You guys are the best!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mercy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276428) by [Aldebaran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldebaran/pseuds/Aldebaran)




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